


Pinned down and perfect

by merrythoughts, ReallyMissCoffee



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Blow Jobs, Casual Sex, Come Marking, Hot, Jealousy, Light BDSM, M/M, Mentioned Voyeurism, Morally Ambiguous Stiles Stilinski, Nightmares, Nogitsune Effects, Nogitsune Trauma, Peter is a Little Shit, Porn with Feelings, Possessive Behavior, Post-Season/Series 03, Rough Sex, Snark, Some Humor, as in oops all of a sudden we're going there, but the feelings aren't OUT THERE yet, surprise plot
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-30
Updated: 2019-08-16
Packaged: 2020-03-17 11:40:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 54,564
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18964510
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/merrythoughts/pseuds/merrythoughts, https://archiveofourown.org/users/ReallyMissCoffee/pseuds/ReallyMissCoffee
Summary: Were anyone to ask (and Peter doesn't know how they ever would as no one else knows about this), he'd claim that he didn't know how any of this had started. It's a lie; he knows precisely how it had started. The real mystery is how it'scontinuedto happen over time.





	1. Enjoyment

**Author's Note:**

> ( ﾟ▽ﾟ)/ Hello there, enjoy this yummynummy slightly feelsy story.
> 
> ~~We may write more in this 'verse later (who are we kidding, we prolly will, we have a whole buncha' kinky ideas), but for now it's being marked as done!~~
> 
> We hope you all like! ♥
> 
>  **Disclaimer:** This is another merrythoughts & ReallyMissCoffee production. In case you don't know us, just a heads up: this is written first and foremost as an alternating roleplay between us which doesn't necessarily translate smoothly into an easily digestible or traditional fic format.
> 
> At times the flow can be jarring - we know - but please forgo any constructive criticism regarding the format. We are choosing to share our work and if you like it, you like it, if not, press the back button and try something else as we have no interest in attempting to fic-ify our stories and cut down on the introspection/words etc. Thanks! :)

They usually fuck around at Peter's apartment. Seeing as Peter lives alone and no one from the pack is likely to ever stop by unannounced, it's more practical. Peter's place is also nicer than Stiles' dad's house. No one knows about them and Stiles hopes to keep it that way. 

If Peter does ever stop by, the visits coincide with Stiles' dad being on night shift. Usually. Peter may enjoy riling people up, but Stiles is pretty sure Peter _also_ doesn't want anyone to find out. The disapproval from Derek and the spaz from Scott alone is worth avoiding. Stiles wants none of that.

So what if they're each other's dirty little secret? Stiles is eighteen. Peter is... something over thirty. They're both consenting adults. This is Stiles' early mid-life crisis. This is residual fucked up bullshit from his time playing host to a certain thousand year old dark fox with a penchant for riddles. How does anyone go back to normal after such an experience? Stiles has killed people. Allison is dead...

But Stiles has bucked up. He's not here to mope around and have his friends and family be worried about him. This is Beacon Hills, after all. There are always more important matters at hand than his apparent lingering trauma. Peter helps with that, actually. If anything, Peter is a great distraction. 

That's exactly how this had begun. After a pack meeting, the two of them had been walking to their respective vehicles when Peter had unhelpfully made the suggestion that Stiles ought to get laid and work off some of his stress. Stiles hadn't been thinking when he'd snarked back with a, _'you offering?'_

Apparently the answer was yes. Peter had been offering or at least willing and Peter had simply invited Stiles over and the rest in history. Just because they've messed around doesn't mean that Stiles' opinion on Peter has changed (much). Peter is still an asshole. He's still a creeper wolf who apparently sucks at staying dead and has messed with all of them.

Peter's also really good in bed so why shouldn't Stiles take advantage of that? That's what Peter is doing. Peter had specifically detailed that it was just sexual and to not ' _fall hopelessly in love with him.'_ Stiles had actually snorted at that. As if. 

Tonight Stiles has shown up unannounced which Peter loathes (which is all the more reason to do it). They usually check over text to ensure it's convenient and that no one else is around, but Stiles had been feeling keyed up, so he'd hopped in his Jeep and had driven over. 

As soon as Peter had begrudgingly let him in, Stiles had wasted no time and stripped down to green plaid boxers. Unfortunately, it didn't get further than that because Peter claimed to be busy. Now Stiles is wandering around Peter's place (not pacing) while Peter hums to himself and stares at his laptop, apparently looking over investments or some shit. Stiles doesn't bother re-dressing because _after_ Peter is done with his laptop, Stiles _will_ be getting some. He can wait.

* * *

Were anyone to ask (and Peter doesn't know how they ever would as _no one_ else knows about this), he'd claim that he didn't know how any of this had started. It's a lie; he knows precisely how it had started. The real mystery is how it's _continued_ to happen over time. 

A one-off hadn't been that shocking. Mutual sarcasm and Stiles' trauma had been a wonderful catalyst, and the resulting sex had, admittedly, been far better than Peter had expected. No, what _is_ shocking is that it _hadn't_ just been a one-off. Despite Peter making it relatively clear to not let the door hit Stiles on the way out when he'd left that first time, Stiles had shown up again out of nowhere a week later and Peter, both surprised and irritated, hadn't kicked him out. 

He'd told himself that he would, that next time he'd shut Stiles down, but it's now been _many_ 'next times', and considering that Peter's shown up at Stiles' place a few times since, he doesn't think he can claim to be a simple bystander anymore.

Bit by bit, they've built up a pattern. It's just sex, but there are still rules. Peter makes it clear that he doesn't like Stiles showing up unannounced (which means that Stiles likes to show up unannounced) and Stiles _implies_ that Peter's not allowed to come over when his dad's there. Peter mostly adheres to that, but he's definitely fucked Stiles in his bed with the sheriff just down the hall before. Stiles' outrage is just the icing on the cake and Peter does enjoy the occasional sweet delicacy. 

It's not a bad way to spend an evening. Stiles is intelligent even if he is curious to a fault. He's insightful compared to _other_ members of his little group that Peter could sneer at. And, though Stiles has never come out and said it, they both know that Stiles is damaged. It doesn't need to be implicitly said. Peter knows. He's damaged too; broken people tend to find other broken people. It's hardly a surprise. 

Besides, though it doesn't happen often, there are certain nights that Peter doesn't kick Stiles out of bed immediately. Some nights, they lay there. Stiles talks and Peter pretends not to listen, but he suspects that Stiles knows he is. Those nights are growing steadily as time passes, and Peter still doesn't know what to make of them. 

He _enjoys_ Stiles, is the issue. The boy has a quick wit about him and he can give as good as he gets. He's oddly adult for his age, but then, trauma does make one age quickly. Peter knows a little about that, too. 

But just because he enjoys Stiles does _not_ mean that Stiles has carte blanche to get away with murder. Metaphorically, that is; Peter doesn't think he'd care if Stiles did kill someone - who hasn't nowadays? 

Peter likes to be alerted to Stiles' little visits, and so when Stiles shows up _that_ evening in his run-down, rusted Jeep, looking for all the world like he's managed to swipe Peter's favorite v-neck (which had only happened once; Peter had made _sure_ of that...) Peter looks him up and down and waits until Stiles is stripped to his boxers before dismissing him. 

He actually _had_ been working on his investments before Stiles had shown up. Yes, the Hale fortune is definitely protected, but that doesn't mean that Peter isn't exceedingly careful about his money. If he were as frivolous with it as Derek is, he'd not have a penny to his name. Still, Peter believes his little riposte to be effective. The issue is that instead of looking awkward and hastily redressing like Stiles is _supposed_ to, he just... wanders around instead, looking at everything and _touching_ more than Peter wants him to. 

Peter takes it for ten minutes before he sighs heavily. "You know, _chairs_ exist for a reason. You are allowed to sit. You don't need to wear a hole in my floor to be comfortable. If you wanted to build a nest, you probably have everything you'd need in your Jeep." 

Because Peter has seen Stiles clean that damn thing all of one time in the last eight months.

* * *

Peter let Stiles in. If Peter had no intention of _doing_ anything with him, Peter wouldn't have unlocked the door to begin with, right? Yup, it makes sense to Stiles. He knows that he's probably irritating Peter by walking around and touching Peter's likely expensive and pretentious knickknacks and ornaments, but whatever. What else is he supposed to do? Sit around? Play on his phone? That's what Stiles had been doing before he decided to come here. If he wanted to do that, he'd have stayed in his damn bedroom. 

During his travels, Stiles has touched along the spines of some old ass books in Peter's ornate bookshelf. He's also poked at some ornaments. Although he's stripped down to his boxers, Stiles is still in his cotton grey socks (hey, cold feet suck). Every so often he just slides his feet along Peter's dark hardwood floor, taking a break from his meandering (pacing). 

Every once in a while Stiles hears Peter click on the laptop's trackpad and he glances over. Peter's wearing his usual jeans and a black v-neck t-shirt that shows off the beginnings of a defined muscular chest. What could be more interesting than Stiles _only_ in his boxers (more or less) _,_ ready to get down and dirty? Apparently investments. What a snore! 

But as each minute passes, Stiles' unrest grows. His muscles feel tight at the back of his neck and shoulders. It's not that he thinks Peter is going to leave him high and dry (although it feels like it's something that Peter would do if Peter was feeling especially nasty). No, Stiles' problem is that he feels anxious and he doesn't even know _why._ Nothing has happened. There's no discernable reason to be keyed up. 

When Peter's dramatic sigh comes and is followed up by the stupid commentary, Stiles stops and shoots him an annoyed look. 

"I'm not here to nest," Stiles retorts, his fingers fidgeting by his sides. "And I don't want to sit. I want to fuck. Given my lack of clothing and me being here at all, I'd say that's rather obvious." 

* * *

Stiles is distressed but Peter thinks nothing of it. Why would he? As good as the sex is, he doesn't actually _care_ about Stiles in that way. Stiles isn't distressed enough that it sets off warning bells in Peter's mind and frankly, this is a teachable moment. Or at least that's what he's going with, as odd (and adult) as that concept seems. 

Yet even as Peter drawls at Stiles and sees Stiles shoot him an annoyed look back, he has to admit to himself that Stiles' distress is beginning to get distracting. The pacing alone is distracting enough, but it's the way that Stiles keeps _fidgeting_ that draws Peter's attention whether he wants it drawn or not.

The response is precisely what Peter had expected. He rolls his eyes and turns his attention back to his laptop, but now that he's acknowledged Stiles, it's unfortunately more difficult to ignore him. Peter can't help but notice the twitching of his fingers and the awkward beat of his pulse. 

Now that he's letting himself notice, Stiles' scent is slightly off as well, and Peter can _tell_ himself that he doesn't care until he's blue in the face. Yet he still keeps getting distracted. It's maddening. Try as he might, he's too in-tune with Stiles' _normal_ at this point to not notice when he's off.

"I distinctly remember telling you to text _before_ coming over," Peter says back airily, not looking back over at Stiles. His attention remains on his laptop. "This would be why. But between you pacing a groove into my floor or you making yourself useful, you might as well come over here." 

Peter reaches one hand out and pats the seat beside him on the couch. It feels a little like rewarding bad behavior, but then, Peter _does_ admire a little rule breaking here and there. Even if the rules broken are his own. 

"You could always work for it instead of pacing."

* * *

Isn't this better? Peter giving him shit and Stiles giving it right back? This is familiar at least and Stiles isn't alone. Maybe that's the biggest thing here. Stiles doesn't particularly like being alone because if he's alone, it's just him and his head and sometimes his thoughts get away from him. Sometimes they go off in directions that aren't especially safe or nice. 

Peter isn't his own go-to, of course. He texts and gets together with Scott and sometimes he even calls his dad, but Stiles doesn't want to always bother them. He doesn't want to become a burden. Maybe he's a little stunted, but life goes on. 

Stiles sees Peter's little eye roll and he gives a huff in response. Peter goes back to looking at his laptop. A flare of irritation shoots through Stiles as he stares Peter down. His fingers curl and uncurl by his sides. Stiles could go back to wandering around and checking out Peter's knickknacks (because there are a lot of them), but he decides to hold his ground and stare Peter down.

It seems to work because Peter does respond to him, choosing to jab about him not texting _blahblahblah_ , but Peter does beckon him over and that's making headway. While Stiles doesn't especially care for the little seat pat (because it reminds him of calling over a dog), there is a challenge issued to him and Stiles can appreciate that. He can rise up and focus on that. The corners of Stiles' mouth quirk in an almost-grin.

"Okay, sure." Stiles doesn't waste any more time before walking over to Peter. Stiles doesn't necessarily feel like some skillful seductive minx, but he's far from some inexperienced virgin (which is a lie, anyway). He knows Peter doesn't have really any patience for him being timid, so Stiles sits on his knees sideways so he's better able to lean in and whisper into Peter's ear. 

"I want you to fuck me into your mattress," Stiles begins as he brings a hand to the back of Peter's head and his fingers scratch at Peter's scalp.

* * *

Stiles makes his way over and Peter feels a small thread of satisfaction work its way through him. The tight scent of anxiety lessens in the air and Stiles' pulse takes a steadier cadence as Peter watches him walk closer. He doesn't necessarily care _that_ Stiles is upset over something, but the distance from his norm is something that Peter can't help but notice. Stiles has a default setting and Peter's quite familiar with it by now. 

The variance between that norm and his current norm is distracting. He doesn't smell right, and his pulse doesn't sound right. But when Stiles walks over and settles down beside Peter, it doesn't take long for the sound of Stiles' pulse to even out. The scent of his anxiety abates slightly and Peter takes satisfaction in it.

Still, he keeps his eyes resolutely on the laptop in front of him. When Stiles gets close enough, Peter lowers the zoom on his laptop, because he doesn't _actually_ want Stiles to see the numbers that he's working with. Somehow he doubts that Stiles would stay focused on whatever this is were he to see the millions of dollars that Peter has not only in the bonds in the vault, but through his own interest and investments. He's interested in making smart decisions now that he's 'alive' again - in a matter of speaking - and so as enticing as the little suggestion that Stiles makes is, Peter's attention doesn't really wane.

He does glance at Stiles, almost thoughtful, but he still looks away. Peter does linger, though. Stiles can take comfort in that, if nothing else. 

"Do you now? I don't know how much I believe that," Peter drawls, though he does tilt his head back a little into the scratch of Stiles' fingers through his hair. Peter's quite fond of being difficult, but he doesn't want to _only_ be discouraging, after all. Where's the enjoyment in that?

"Really, Stiles. I'm not an animal. A little foreplay never hurt anyone. But," he adds, enunciating the 't' sound in a way that all but _drips_ with mischief, "you _could_ touch yourself for awhile instead. You know where the lube is, and I _do_ like listening to you work yourself up."

* * *

It's not just having the challenge of 'working for it' that has Stiles' unease lessening. Not that Stiles would ever admit it, but he's pretty sure that proximity is also a factor here. Apparently pack bonds do exist and he may not be a werewolf, but he still a part of the pack. Stiles hadn't really felt any of it until Scott had become a true Alpha. But there exists various degrees of bonds between Stiles and the others. He's obviously closest to Scott, Lydia and Malia, but Derek is up there too. It wasn't until this thing between _them_ started up that Stiles had even been aware of the bond between Peter and him. 

There is no other logical explanation for Stiles feeling better _now_. It's the pack bond. Months ago Stiles would have avoided being close to Peter at all costs. Even so, Stiles was usually the one trying to pester Peter for any useful information. It's not that Stiles hated the guy, but Peter had caused lots of grief for most of them. Peter was totally on the outskirts of the pack, showing up infrequently, helping only when it suited him, annoying and wearing entirely too many v-neck shirts.

Stiles isn't interested in whatever Peter is doing - _investments_ -akafancy pants adult money business. He doesn't try and take a gander at the laptop screen. This close, Stiles can smell Peter's cologne. His hair is soft and these things are more important.

Until Peter speaks, of course. Wowww, big surprise! Peter wants to be a dick about what he's saying, complaining that Stiles' dirty talk is skipping the foreplay schtick, and excuse me, sometimes they skip that shit entirely! It's not all long drawn out sexy times. Sometimes they get right down to business. Stiles is debating if he'll get away with pulling Peter's hair when Peter, smartly, rescues it and offers an alternative: Stiles touching himself and Peter listening.

It should be embarrassing how hard he gets from that, but he's young, they're both used to it. Stiles' tongue slides out to lick along the shell of Peter's ear before murmuring, "Challenge accepted." 

Stiles scratches along Peter's scalp one more time before extricating himself from the couch. Does he leave immediately to go to Peter's room? No. Instead, Stiles shimmies his boxers down, giving Peter full view of his ass before stepping out of them. 

Then he walks to Peter's room and debates flicking on the light. He decides to because Stiles doesn't always feel so great amidst the dark. He fetches the lube from Peter's side table and then crawls onto the large king-size bed that Stiles is _totally_ not jealous of. He decides to get onto his hands and knees and then he's slicking up fingers and reaching back as he braces himself on the other forearm. 

Cool, wet fingertips seek out his waiting hole and Stiles is hissing as his eyes close. He strains, breathing rougher as he simply rubs along the sensitive skin, causing himself to shiver. He teases himself and he knows that Peter can hear him with no problem. Stiles doesn't get theatrical about it. He presses and circles his hole, his own hips wiggling, his cock fully hard and hanging between his legs. It is with a louder groan that a finger breaches himself and works its way in.

* * *

Admittedly Peter is at least aware that he's being difficult, but Stiles has long-known what he's gotten himself into. Peter isn't always a _nice_ man. In fact he often prides himself on _not_ being nice. It's the nature of the beast, so to speak, but Stiles keeps coming back for more, so Peter doesn't think he's too bothered. Still, that Stiles _doesn't_ lash out at him or jerk back is a bit of a curious surprise. Peter breathes in, scenting the air, and Stiles at least smells more stable even if he doesn't particularly smell _impressed_. Peter can see the reflection of Stiles' mutinous look off of his laptop screen, but he can _also_ see the moment that his suggestion registers as one that Stiles is interested in.

As it turns out, he's _more_ than interested in it. He's downright blatant with it. Stiles licks his ear (admittedly a bit of a weakness by times) and then he's on his feet and working the plaid boxers down his legs right in the middle of Peter's living room. Peter, for all his dismissal, does look over and take in the sight. Despite Stiles not sharing the traditional attractiveness that the rest of the pack seems to tap into (Peter included, thank you), he's attractive in a different way. 

Stiles is all long limbs and toned muscles with just enough softness to make him approachable. He's got full lips and wide, doe-like eyes, and a propensity to flush all the way down to his chest when he's embarrassed or aroused. But as Stiles steps out of his boxers, Peter's eyes go right to Stiles' ass. If nothing else, Stiles Stilinski has a _fantastic_ ass and Peter definitely drinks his fill as Stiles walks over to Peter's bedroom.

Peter finishes up what he'd been doing. He'd been close enough to the end, but give Stiles an inch and, much like Peter, he'll take a mile. It doesn't take much to secure a few extra investments and spread his money out smartly. And, once done, Peter settles back on the couch, folds his hands over his abdomen, and closes his eyes. 

It's Peter's opinion that Stiles had missed his mark in life. In another universe, he's reasonably certain that Stiles could have been doing amateur porn with no strain to his bank account. Despite the tricks that Stiles had _clearly_ picked up by watching porn, he doesn't fall into the usual pitfalls when it comes to sex, as Peter had just assumed universal of anyone Stiles' age. Instead of playing it up, instead of putting emphasis on each breath and moan, however, Stiles is painfully authentic when he decides to indulge. 

Peter knows. He's checked. 

He listens comfortably as Stiles begins, and Peter feels a small tug at his instincts as his own bed creaks. The knowledge that Stiles is in his space should feel maddening, but it doesn't. Instead, it's growing almost comfortable over time. 

Peter basks, listening as Stiles works himself up, breathing in the thicker scent of arousal on the air, and when Stiles' finger apparently presses _in_ , Peter can tell based on the tight strain of his groan. It's practically musical, and he definitely enjoys the sound.

Peter listens for awhile longer before he stands up and, without making much of a sound, he wanders over to his bedroom door and stops there, leaning against the doorframe. He doesn't say anything, but his eyes immediately go to Stiles, admiring the desperate arch of his back and the flush already creeping over his skin. Peter fully intends to enjoy the show while he can.

* * *

Stiles doesn't exaggerate in bed, not with Peter and not now. Early on, he'd done it once and Peter had called him out on it. Ever since then Stiles doesn't act. Peter's ubër senses allow him to catch Stiles in any inauthentic behavior. It also enables Peter to hear him perfectly fine despite the distance between them.

It's actually really hot to know that Peter is listening to him. Peter can hear each labored breath, he can hear the rustle of the comforter under Stiles' body when he can't stay still. Peter can hear his finger worm its way inside of his body, the lube slick. It still amazes Stiles how his body can stretch open to accomodate a dick (Peter's dick) and then return to normal. That's the one thing about gay sex, the one downside, is that preparation is necessary. 'Spur of the moment' doesn't really work with anal. 

But that doesn't matter now. Now Stiles has the time to work himself up _and_ open for Peter. He focuses on pumping his finger in and out, delighting in the wet sounds and the stretch that he feels when his second finger pushes in. It's a bit of a discomfort, a bit of a burn, but there is enough lube and willpower for Stiles to push through. Gradually he loosens around his fingers and Stiles pants as he spreads his legs open wider. 

Ass-stuff is still very intense and weird, but it's also grounding. Stiles has a difficult time staying still, but he also likes that. Peter is quite skilled at holding him still, anyway. Stiles fucks himself harder, oblivious that he's now being watched. Eyes still closed, they squeeze shut tighter when Stiles changes the angle to go for his prostate, rubbing lightly before shuddering from the sensation. It's somewhat difficult to do it to himself (and stay composed) so Stiles returns to finger-fucking his ass.

The bed smells like Peter and Stiles nuzzles his face against it. He's going to blame the familiar scent for the way he moans out Peter's name, desperate and straining. He can feel sweat prickle on his forehead and down his back, but sex is usually a messy affair anyway. Stiles rocks back on his fingers, imagining that they are Peter's cock instead.

* * *

Stiles might not be aware that Peter is watching, but that doesn't mean that Peter doesn't fully enjoy the show in front of him. He doesn't have to comment or vocalize to enjoy the nuances of said show. Besides, sometimes it's when Stiles doesn't know that Peter is watching him that he's the most interesting. 

Really, that had started everything all those months ago. Stiles - unaware that Peter had been watching him during the meeting - had let his distress show. It had barely been a blip. There had been a tightening of his jaw, a narrowing of his eyes, and Stiles had ducked his chin just enough to close himself off. 

Derek (because of course Derek had been the catalyst) hadn't noticed that his comments had left any sort of impression, but Peter had. It had intrigued him, the way that Stiles' smiles hadn't quite met his eyes after that, and the way that his laughs had been loud and would-be-genuine... except that Peter could see the cracks. Stiles hides in plain sight very well. As Peter is gradually beginning to realize, he only notices this because _he_ does the same thing. Both hiding in plain sight. 

But Stiles isn't hiding now. He is enjoying himself to the fullest. Peter watches, head tilted appreciatively, as pale thighs spread wider. Stiles isn't wasting time with it, but nor is he rushing as he fucks himself somewhat awkwardly with one finger. Peter can hear the slick sounds, the wetness, and Stiles' answering moans, but it's when one finger becomes two and Peter can _see_ the strain that shivers through Stiles' legs that he feels the first real stirring of arousal. 

He watches, eyes glinting his own pleasure, as Stiles' fingers curl down, the angle awkward. Peter doesn't need to wonder to know what Stiles is doing. As hot as it is to see Stiles rubbing at his own prostate, Peter knows he won't stay with it for long. Stiles finds it too sensitive to stay focused at it. That's what Peter's for.

But... in a bit. He's enjoying the sight of Stiles' back arching and bowing as Stiles presses back, fucking himself open with two fingers. It's quite the sight even at a distance, and Peter wets his lips, feeling his cock begin to stir in his jeans. But when Stiles begins to rock back on his fingers, clearly chasing a specific sensation, and moans out _Peter's_ name, well, how is he supposed to maintain a professional distance then? 

Peter walks over quietly; it's one of his main skills in the pack. Derek might be strong enough to throw him through a brick wall, but Peter is quick, quiet, and intelligent. He knows how to walk on the balls of his feet in order to make virtually no sound, and he only stops beside the bed when he needs to. Peter smirks; were Stiles to lift his head, his presence would be obvious, but Stiles is too busy hungrily fucking himself back on his own fingers. 

Peter waits until it looks like Stiles' fingers are beginning to slow, his wrist either tiring or cramping, and only then does he lean in close. It's not close enough that Stiles might jerk up and hurt himself, but it _is_ close enough that Peter's voice is right in his ear.

"I wonder if you moan my name when you fuck yourself in your own bed. I've not heard you do that yet. Maybe it's a recent development..." 

Peter's hand moves down, and he presses his own hand over Stiles', keeping Stiles' fingers buried deep inside of his ass. 

* * *

Not counting Peter, Stiles has only slept with two other people: one guy and one girl. He's a bonafide real bisexual, no doubts about it. Stiles appreciates both the male and female form and while it's definitely easier to have vaginal sex with a girl, it's also more complicated to be with a chick because getting her off had been more of a challenge. The guy had been way less involved. But Stiles' pool of sexual partners is rather low to make any resounding claims.

But comparing those past two experiences... Peter rocks Stiles' world. While awesome sex is great and all, Peter definitely doesn't need the ego boost. Stiles is no slouch himself. If he wasn't doing something right, he's certain Peter would have put his foot down, but again and again, at least a few times a week, they're boning. It's not always sex-sex. Sometimes it's just mad makeout sessions with rushed mutual handjobs and other times it's Peter deepthroating him until Stiles sees stars.

Either way, it's all been good with Peter so Stiles puts up with Peter sometimes being a difficult priss. And it means when Stiles' fingers slam into his body, he's only thinking about Peter fucking him. Peter has fucked him here, against Stiles' bedroom door, in the living room. All good memories. But Stiles is only human and it is still awkward to be trying to fuck himself hard and fast, so his pace does lessen as he's panting and so, so turned on. He can't help but wonder if Peter is too from hearing him--

Then it's Peter's voice in his ear and Stiles' eyes snap open and his head shoots up to look at Peter. As if being caught, Stiles does try and pull his fingers out, but it's more of a surprised reaction. Peter doesn't allow him though (which is both hot and aggravating). But Stiles has been caught apparently moaning out Peter's name without Peter actually being present and doing anything. Usually Stiles kist curses Peter out if he vocalizes anything. Embarrassment wants to crawl up but Stiles' chooses to focus instead on what Peter's admitted.

"Why are you lurking around my house and listening to me do _that_?" Stiles shoots back. 

Before Peter, Stiles hadn't actually played with his ass all that much so he's a little taken aback that Peter knows that he has taken that particular activity up and also fantasized about Peter. "And it's not my problem you happen to be good in bed and blow my past experiences away. When I'm like thirty-nine I'll be just as good as you."

* * *

Peter is aware that Stiles hasn't heard him, and aside from the truly enticing picture that he makes while attempting to fuck himself back on his own fingers, the shock on Stiles' face when Peter speaks is the best thing that Peter's seen all evening. Stiles predictably tries to pull his hand back but Peter's quick to stop it. He's careful not to press down too hard lest he cut off Stiles' circulation, but Peter wants it to be known that he'd caught Stiles like this. He makes no move to tell Stiles how long he's been watching, either. That information is for Peter alone.

He watches the flush slowly spill out over onto Stiles' skin, and Peter breathes in the smell of his embarrassment. Stiles reacts well, which only makes Peter more inclined to mess with him. He doesn't think that he can be blamed. Stiles has tried to mess with him right back on more than one occasion. Whether or not he's ever been successful is another matter entirely. 

So while Stiles looks properly embarrassed, Peter drinks in the sight, but he also knows that Stiles isn't one to take embarrassment lying down. Peter isn't really that surprised when Stiles deflects, but he'll give him that pass. Stiles is on his hands and knees on Peter's bed, with his own fingers up his ass, while Peter is fully clothed. Peter can give him a little leeway.

Still, if Stiles is expecting shame in response to what Peter's admitted, he has another thing coming. Instead Peter smirks, clearly pleased with himself. He basks in it, and while he _does_ intend to say more... he leaves it just a little too long. Just barely long enough for Stiles to keep _on_ talking, and the smirk is very quickly wiped from Peter's face.

The notion of him being _thirty-nine_ is one that makes Peter lean back so fast that it's a wonder that he doesn't overbalance. Looking affronted without his say-so, he shoots Stiles a pinched look and - quite unceremoniously - he draws his hand back and gives Stiles' ass a quick swat. He doesn't really _try_ to make it gentle, either. 

"Brat," he mutters back, but his hand smooths over the reddened cheek of Stiles' ass a second later, as Stiles _had_ acknowledged Peter's superior sexual experience and skill. Peter needs to give him props for that if nothing else. 

"If you have to ask me _why_ I've listened in on you, you only need to ask yourself _why_ you keep showing up here without texting me first. Because I can. Because I enjoy it." Peter shrugs one shoulder. "Because it's fun."

* * *

Peter Hale is a big fat cheater because he gets super-heightened senses and he's actually really good at being a creeper wolf and being stealthy. Stiles should probably be more freaked out that Peter had been auditory spying on him or whatever, but Stiles is turned on. He's been fingering himself and thinking about Peter so he's more forgiving of such a thing. 

The one downside of the light being on, is that Stiles can see Peter's expression. Peter doesn't need the light to be turned on to see _him_ , but the light offers Peter details such as the flush (and blush) coloring Stiles' face. It's not so much that Peter has caught him because obviously at some point Peter was going to be coming in, it's moaning out Peter's name that has Stiles just a tad flustered still. Oh, and also the Peter-apparently-listening-to-him thing.

Stiles is sticking to his guns, though. Peter is a rockstar in the bedroom. It's only natural that Stiles would moan out Peter's name. It's the guy he's been messing around with for the past few months. Yes, he knows that Peter isn't thirty-nine (at least Stiles hopes), but it's worth giving the comment because Peter's smirk falls from his face. It does create some distance between them because Peter pulls back and an amusing look is sent his way. And then a spank comes his way after that and Stiles can't even pretend to be affronted. He deserves it and Stiles definitely doesn't mind getting spanked anyway. The sting isn't all that bad.

Peter's answer is... Surprisingly honest. Stiles shows up without texting because he can, because he enjoys it and because it's fun. Okay then. Stiles pulls his fingers out, his wrist definitely a little sore from the angle. He gets up onto his knees and reaches for the Kleenex on the side table to wipe off his fingers. 

"I guess it's flattering," Stiles concedes, glancing up at Peter with a considering look. "Anyway, you're finished being responsible, right? You want to impress me some more with your sexual prowess?" Stiles lifts an eyebrow in challenge. He wants to get off and he's hoping Peter will opt to be involved rather than send him on his way or go back to the livingroom to laptop it up.

* * *

One of the many upsides of sleeping with Stiles is that he's _bright_. Far be it from the whining, mutinous chatter of most of the rest of the pack, when Peter gives Stiles a reason for something, Stiles usually accepts it if it makes sense. Occasionally he'll call Peter a dirty liar and demand the truth (typically when Peter _is_ lying; the boy has annoyingly sharp intuition) but typically he'll consider what Peter has said, weigh the reality of it, and then either let it go, or tease Peter _before_ letting it go. Stiles is oddly present for his age (which makes Peter want to grimace at how _old_ that thought makes him feel) and he's not one usually prone to falling into the pitfalls of other teenagers his age. 

Like now. Peter answers simply and instead of suspicion or dismissal, Stiles looks a little surprised, then thoughtful, and then finally accepts what Peter has said. Peter watches Stiles slip his fingers free of his hole, leaving the rim pink and inviting, and grab for a tissue to wipe his fingers off on. It's amusingly practical and Peter huffs a soft laugh as Stiles turns back to him, all business. 

Peter shoots him a mild look at the vague idea that Stiles should be _rewarded_ after calling him old, but he does relent soon enough, reaching over for the discarded lube in order to slick his own fingers. He sits himself down on the edge of his bed, then reaches out with his free hand to hook around Stiles' thighs, pulling him back a little closer. Clearly making _Stiles_ move to suit his position makes the most sense.

"I heard you moaning my name," Peter answers, sounding smug, "responsibility will still be there once you go back home. The wonders of online investments, Stiles - I can do them at any time." Which implies that Peter's reticence had stemmed from Stiles showing up unannounced. He doesn't apologize for it. 

"Come here. Over my lap. I notice you still don't play with your prostate for long when you're fingering yourself. Too sensitive?" Peter reaches down, pressing two slick fingers to Stiles' hole when he's close enough. He doesn't press in, but he does rub and tease a little. He enjoys Stiles desperate.

* * *

Peter better not send him away and leave him high and dry. Stiles may have to riot if that happens. He's here, he's stroked Peter's ego even, he's ready, they should do _stuff_. All the stuff. Or at least some stuff. Stiles is okay with anything, too, although it seems a pity to have stretched and _not_ get fucked. He's put work into fingering himself. There should be a payoff. He'd never thought that he would enjoy a dick up his ass so much, but... Peter is infuriatingly good. It's always intense and almost too much and Stiles feels a little addicted to it.

Peter reaches for the lube and a prickle of anticipation dances over Stiles' skin. Stiles unabashedly watches Peter lube up his fingers and sit down. Stiles is then unceremoniously pulled closer which has him giving a little squawk as he re-balances himself. It's typical Peter to not be especially considerate at times so it's nothing new for Stiles. It's also typical that Peter just so happens to mention that he'd opted to focus on the investments even though they could be attended to whenever. Stiles rolls his eyes because Peter can't see him, but Peter quickly makes up for it with issuing an instruction which means Peter is going to do stuff with him. All the stuff. 

Stiles does lay himself over Peter's lap, not even embarrassed as his cock presses into Peter's jean-clad thighs. Fingers at his hole have Stiles struggling to retort and he shudders as he stretches his arms out, trying to not give in and tell Peter to hurry up (because Peter will often do the opposite if he tries that). 

"Astute observation there," Stiles finally says as he pushes back just a little, but Peter isn't wrong. He doesn't go for his prostate much when fingering himself. "It's just... difficult to do it to myself," is what Stiles goes with. "And-and it's still kind of new, okay. I used to just happily yank it with no extra flare."

* * *

"Mm. Yes, I'm aware," Peter drawls, faux-distracted as Stiles' back arches and he pushes his hips back just enough to tell Peter what _else_ he wants. Peter, ever helpful, moves his fingers back to ensure that Stiles' pleasure happens on his terms, but Stiles is likely more than used to that by now. And if he isn't, he should be. 

"Personally, I think you fingering yourself is much better. Listening to you jerk off is interesting enough, but it lacks the little sounds of desperation and frustration that you make when your wrist begins to cramp on you."

Peter draws his fingers back just enough to lever them away from Stiles' skin. He smooths his free hand down Stiles' back, and - seeing as the option is _right there -_ he waits until Stiles tries to push back again before his hand comes down with a loud _crack_ against Stiles' ass. It's louder than it is painful, aimed to make it sound jarring, but Peter's just pleased that Stiles had so willingly backed himself up into that one. Literally. Peter doesn't need to chide Stiles for his patience. The spank - quick and without warning - likely does that for him.

Stiles _does_ make the best sounds, after all. And it's with that in mind that Peter decides to give Stiles what he'd wanted. Just perhaps not _when_ he'd wanted. 

He waits for Stiles to still be a little tense in surprise from the spank, and then easily spreads his flushed-pink cheeks and one finger not only finds the slick heat of Stiles' hole but presses _inside_. Peter hums, feeling the sudden tightness around his finger, but he doesn't mince words. He goes right for Stiles' prostate, giving it a pointed, languid rub. 

* * *

Naturally Peter can't let _him_ dictate anything because Peter moves his fingers away after Stiles tries to push back. Stiles' own fingers curl into fists but he plans on limiting Peter's satisfaction of getting a rise out of him for as long as possible. Stiles doesn't cuss him out. This is the usual for them and maybe Stiles should be worried that they have a usual-anything, but they've done this enough. Learning each other, observing habits and patterns, it just kinda happens in repeated sexual activity.

Peter casually admits that he's listened to Stiles masturbate - just jerking off - and Stiles wonders just how long Peter has been lurking and doing that. Had it been _before_ they started messing around? That would be creepier. Or is it still flattering? But it's been enough time that Peter seems to be well versed in his sounds and how they're apparently different. Stiles simply huffs as Peter runs his hand down Stiles' ass and Stiles predictably just pushes back encouragingly. Peter chooses to respond with a sudden spank that surprises more than hurts. Still, it does smart and a startled gasp slips out.

Stiles is opening his mouth to give what he's sure will be a scathing retort of some kind when Peter just decides to go for it, spreading him open and pressing a finger in. The only word that come out is a, "fuck" which is then followed up by a breathy groan of pleasure as Peter expertly rubs inside just right. Stiles squeezes his eyes shut as his body jerks, muscles tensing. 

"Going to-- going to return the favor and let me listen to you?" Stiles asks, voice shaky. "Think you could make it _interesting_ for me?"

* * *

Oh, out of everything that Peter's done with Stiles, _this_ is what he likes the best. Shutting him up mind-sentence, or before a sentence can even form is definitely satisfying, but being responsible for the way he suddenly jerks and twitches and groans is another matter entirely. Peter's smirk is nearly its own entity as he slowly curls his finger, rubbing down against Stiles' prostate with the precision that only comes from practice. Peter feels the swollen edges of it, knows that Stiles has been aroused for some time, and he delights in the knowledge that Stiles doesn't often do this to himself because it's too sensitive.

One of these days, he's going to be relentless, going to watch Stiles moan and thrash and come helplessly just from stimulation to his prostate, but Peter doubts that Stiles would thank him for that tonight. He'd already been anxious when he'd shown up on Peter's doorstep - even if Peter hadn't smelled it, he'd have been able to feel it in the pack bond that has crept up between them without his say-so over time - so Peter doesn't want to make it worse, even if it _would_ be entertaining. 

He contents himself in watching Stiles react, and he basks in the tight clench of Stiles' muscles around his finger, involuntary. Even his body seems to know it's too sensitive. It just makes Peter more tempted. 

But Stiles' little challenge _back_ is enough to get Peter's attention. He glances sidelong at Stiles and rubs the prickling palm of his hand over the heated skin of Stiles' ass, enjoying the way he can see Stiles' hole spread whenever he squeezes just right. Peter gives his fingers a little twist, testing, and when he presses back in with another, it's still quick but it's not immediate. His fingers are thicker than Stiles', after all, and Peter enjoys the tight clench around them as he goes right back to rubbing Stiles' prostate. He does break now and then, stroking around, teasing, but he does give Stiles focused attention on occasion. 

"If that's something you think you'd like to hear - or see, if you prefer - I could indulge you. The issue with that, Stiles, is that you are _very_ impatient," Peter says, with a hint of a smirk in his voice. "I could make it interesting for you, but you'd wind up _aching_ for me to fuck you instead."

* * *

Back and forth retorts are a rather commonplace occurrence between the two of them. Of course when one or both of their mouths are occupied the colorful commentary then ceases. Kissing is a great way to shut up Peter. Peter covering Stiles' mouth with his palm stops Stiles' chatter. Stiles knows that Peter finds great amusement in catching him off guard, in making him stutter or curse, throwing off his flow. On one hand, it's irritating, but on the other... Well, Stiles likes doing the same thing to Peter, doesn't he?

It's not Stiles' fault that he's caught off guard and has a verbal blunder. Ass-stuff is newer to him. Going for his prostate feels very different than just stroking his dick. It's an entirely different sensation and it's difficult to do it himself for long, but _Peter_ doing it is... It's easier. Peter can hold him down and force him to take it (which should be frightening, but Peter's not a rapist). There's a reassuring aspect that Stiles finds in Peter's strength, that Peter can hold him down, can restrain him... It means Stiles is human. It means there's nothing possessing him. It means the nogitsune is still caged.

Peter pushes another finger in and the stretch only intensifies. Earlier Stiles thinks he was definitely a little embarrassed to be seen like this, to be completely bare to Peter, ass practically on display. But Peter has never made anything bad for him. Peter may not coddle him, but he's not outright malicious either. Peter provides him with a distraction, a physical and sexual outlet. In its own way it's a connection. 

Peter wastes no time in curling his fingers again and Stiles' feet are flexing outward. He definitely wants to push back, to exert some meager effort in changing the sensation, but Peter's answer actually stops Stiles from attempting.

While Peter offers to _indulge him,_ Peter also insinuates that Stiles would have an issue being patient, that he'd be aching for Peter to fuck him instead. At first the claim seems ludicrous because Peter couldn't put on that good of a show, could he? Now Stiles is wondering about that which only adds to his present arousal. He's obviously a fan of the idea. 

"So?" Stiles goes with. "You like fucking me. You like the way I squirm, how I clench around your cock like I'm hungry for it. You like the-the sounds I make." 

Stiles swallows. He's not ready to beg. Yet.

* * *

It's the slow, desperate flex of Stiles' feet after Peter's fingers press down against his prostate that truly catches Peter's attention. As much as Stiles is still getting used to the feeling of jittery, sharp pleasure, of Peter relentlessly making him squirm, he's not used to it yet. Each press draws a reaction out of Stiles that makes Peter want to growl, to press harder, to make him feel more. Stiles is wonderfully expressive, after all, and Peter wants to soak up every moment with him like a sponge. He's clever enough to keep things interesting, young enough to still be brash, and brave enough to meet Peter head on. Peter can't think of anyone else in the pack willing to do that.

Hell, he can hardly think of anyone else in the pack who acknowledges his presence. Most meetings he's not invited, which isn't surprising. Derek doesn't put up a fuss, and _Scott_ rarely looks in his direction unless he needs to. It's a simple life. Stiles at least makes it interesting.

Like now. Stiles' rejoinder is enough to draw a small huff of a laugh from Peter's throat, though the sound is not derisive. Instead, he sounds amused and intrigued, like Stiles has pleasantly surprised him. He has. The colorful language makes Peter's arousal only heighten and when he presses his fingers down and curls them again pointedly, it's precisely to watch Stiles squirm. 

"Guilty as charged," Peter says, eyeing Stiles appreciatively. "And wholly unrepentant. Though don't think for a second that it's escaped my notice that you seem _quite_ charmed with the idea of watching me. Perhaps it'll warm you up one day, get you begging for me to fuck you. I can always tell when you're close to it." 

Peter gives his fingers a slow, wet thrust into Stiles' hole, spreading them just enough to give Stiles a stretch, a different sensation to focus on. 

"Like now, for instance. Do you want another finger?"

* * *

Stiles is young. He doesn't have much in the way of shame concerning _what_ he likes and _how_ he likes it. Peter is also shameless, he's practically a professional at it too. While it can be aggravating at times (pretty much a synonym for Peter Hale), Stiles secretly admires that Peter is so unapologetic. Peter is unashamedly himself and always has been. Peter doesn't bend or cower and he sure as hell doesn't pull his punches. Peter also doesn't treat him like something fragile.

And that's what keeps drawing Stiles to want to fool around with him. Across his lap, Peter's fingers inside, moving, teasing, pleasuring him and Stiles' ass burning a little from the spank - all the bullshit fades. It's just him and Peter. And maybe everyone would think he's crazy for rolling around with Peter, but Stiles _has_ felt crazy and this is far from it.

Peter's laugh doesn't sound like an egomaniac. He doesn't sound like the villain that Stiles once used to think of him as. Stiles can't do anything because following that, Peter's fingers curl again and Stiles thrashes a little, his head turning one way to the other as if trying to find a comfortable position and unable to do so. 

Of course Peter had noticed that Stiles is interested. Stiles has never watched or heard a real person touch themselves (and obviously have that person be consenting because unlike Peter, Stiles isn't a creep). But Stiles _would_ like to watch Peter put on a show for him. It would be very enjoyable, in fact.

The question is stupid, however. "Yeah, yes. Of course another finger. I want you to fuck me," Stiles rattles off and this time he does push back.

* * *

Peter's not sure what he's more charmed by: the delicious little thrash that Stiles jerks into when Peter mercilessly curls his fingers, or how clearly impatient Stiles is with Peter's line of questioning. Admittedly Peter _had_ been attempting to get a little more of a rise out of Stiles, but he doubts that anyone could blame him. Stiles _had_ showed up at his home and had made a bit of a (charming) nuisance out of himself. Peter's not above a little revenge here and there. 

But he can't deny that the tightness around his fingers isn't getting to him. Stiles is hot inside, and slick with lube, and he's so very responsive. It's one thing that Peter enjoys about Stiles. There's no wondering where you stand with him. He speaks his mind, he's unashamed to be who he is, and Peter can respect that kind of heart. So when Stiles pushes back a little this time, Peter watches the stretch of his hole, watches the slight desperation in Stiles' movements, and he relents. He gives his fingers a quicker, harder thrust, just to give Stiles a taste, and then reaches over for the bottle of lube.

Slicking his fingers again (too much lube has never been a problem) Peter takes his time to press the third against Stiles' hole, but he doesn't waste time in pressing it in. Still reading Stiles' body, reading his need, Peter presses until he feels tension in Stiles' body, and then slows to a gentle little rocking thrust. 

But when he feels Stiles relax again, he doesn't hesitate to press in deeper, until all three fingers are buried in Stiles' ass up to the last knuckle. Peter wets his lips at the sight and the feel, and he doubts that Stiles can miss the press of Peter's cock against his hip at this point. 

"Did you have a preference on position? Because if not, I've a mind to pin you down and fuck you rough. You look like you could use a little manhandling."

* * *

There's time for talk and teasing, and there's time for doing. This is a _doing_ time. Unfortunately for Stiles, Peter hasn't got the memo, or if he has, Peter has glanced over it and then promptly put it underneath his own agenda. Stiles gets that being impatient isn't necessarily a great quality, but he had already waited and fingered himself. 

Truthfully, Stiles doesn't really know what to do with the whole... Peter has apparently creeped him out on more than one occasion and listened to him touch himself thing. Peter had also brought up Stiles watching or listening to him... Is that normal? It's voyeurism, right? Voyeurism and exhibitionism on Peter's part. Consensual, yeah, but is Stiles that kinky? (Peter's rubbing off on him, he's sure of it.)

Stiles doesn't have to wonder - he knows that Peter likes that he can see his fingers pushed deep within Stiles' body. Peter can see and feel when Stiles clenches, his hole hot and hungry. It's not even that embarrassing. How could it be? Since their very first time fucking it's been very clear that Peter cares little for modesty. Stiles hasn't ever been overly modest, but even he got a run for his money and learned to quickly embrace sexuality with Peter.

The harder thrust has Stiles groaning and he can't help but imagine how he'll feel full of Peter's cock. Stiles breathes deeply, his heart hammering in his chest, anticipation straining through each muscle. The sound of more lube is promising and soon enough another finger is pushing in. Stiles grimaces, but the reaction is kept hidden as Stiles curls his head down, forehead resting on the bed now. There's always pressure and a bit of a burn, but Peter is skillful in this endeavor and sure enough, Stiles' channel eventually relaxes into it. It feels better already, more intense, more commanding and Stiles' fingers splay wide as he enjoys how _present_ he is. 

It's not a nightmare, it's not a haze. It's not blackouts. It's just Peter and him.

He can feel that Peter's hard. Peter can feel that he's hard. Peter suffuses everything and when the question and comment sound about positions and Peter holding him down, Stiles finally breaks. "Fuck, Peter -- _please_ ," Stiles begs and he begins to eagerly push back on Peter's fingers. 

* * *

Perhaps they haven't been fucking long, but Peter knows Stiles. He knows how Stiles likes to be pinned down but will only ask for it on occasion. He knows that Stiles likes it when Peter presses his teeth to his skin, a threat of what he'd almost done to him years ago. He knows that Stiles enjoys the simplicity of how Peter approaches the notion of sex and sexuality, and he knows how Stiles secretly needs this to ground himself. It's not something that Peter feels overly inclined to point out, because he doesn't _care_. But if it's between Stiles having nightmares and Stiles coming to him, really, there's no question as to which makes the most sense.

Besides, Stiles is beautifully shameless when he gets desperate like this. The third finger is just a formality, just the icing on the cake. Stiles is desperate enough without it, but when Peter presses it in and feels how _hot_ Stiles is and watches him all but crumple in on himself from discomfort that quickly morphs into pleasure, he knows it won't be long. 

And it isn't. No sooner has he brought up the possibility then Stiles is all but choking out a perfect little sound. He begs then, _pleads_ , and fucks himself back on Peter's fingers so quickly that Peter can't help but get swept up into the raw nature of need.

"You could have asked me sooner," he says, but there's less levity in his voice this time, as Peter can _feel_ his cock give a hard twitch against Stiles' bare hip. Peter gives Stiles a rougher thrust with his fingers, ever curls them for a nearly-cruel graze against Stiles' prostate, but it's serving a purpose. That purpose is - quite simply - taking _real_ control.

Peter pulls his fingers free with a low growl and uses both hands to toss Stiles unceremoniously higher up on the bed. Before he can flail or squirm around, Peter reaches out and gathers Stiles' wrists in his hands, then pins them down to the bed with just one hand. He doesn't need to force Stiles' thighs open but he does it anyway, because Stiles _does_ like being forced even if he'd never admit to it. 

Peter wets his lips as he reaches down. He doesn't bother stripping himself as bare as Stiles; he just undoes his fly and shoves his jeans down enough to free his cock. Applying more lube one-handed is a little more difficult, but when Peter presses his slick cock against Stiles' needy little hole, he doesn't think Stiles minds the wait.

"You fucked yourself back against my fingers easily enough. Why don't you show me how much you want it?" Peter murmurs, leaning over to speak directly against Stiles' ear as Peter braces the head of his cock against Stiles' ass.

* * *

There comes a point in his dealings with Peter that Stiles _will_ beg. He doesn't do it often. He never does it right away either, but if he's worked up enough, if he's teased and pushed, Stiles will break.

But Stiles doesn't break _apart_. He doesn't shatter into pieces. He says _please_ , he begs for Peter to fuck him or to make him come and Stiles knows that Peter won't deny him. Peter can be a bitch - often is - but Peter doesn't balk at his apparent desperation. Maybe it's an ego boost (probably). Maybe it's a matter of pride because of course Peter wants to deliver on a good time. Stiles doesn't really know. He doesn't ask. For all the time they've spent in various states of undress, with hands shoved down pants, hips grinding and re-dressing or straightening out clothing, they don't talk about _this._ It's just become an accepted outlet between them.

Sure, Stiles could have asked sooner, but Peter had decided to be petty and punish him because Stiles had shown up unannounced. Stiles is pretty sure that Peter wouldn't have complied unless Stiles begged... and Stiles can't do that unless he's in a certain state of mind. Like now. 

The very idea of Peter manhandling him, of Peter pinning him... It should be absolutely terrifying (or at least unsettling). Stiles has seen Peter kill more than a few times now. But what it actually is, is freeing because Stiles feels weirdly safe underneath Peter. There's no reason for Peter to hurt him, not when Peter can fuck him and they feel so perfect together.

Stiles is clawing at the sheets when Peter's fingers fuck into him harder and then curl deep. 

Just as sudden as the pleasurable assault is, Peter's fingers are swiftly sliding out and Peter is "re-positioning" Stiles by throwing him up higher on the bed. Stiles is still on his stomach, his cock leaking against Peter's bed (which he knows will linger). His thrill skyrockets when Peter grabs his wrists and proceeds to pin them above his head. Stiles feels almost dizzy with the sudden show of forcefulness, but if anything it's addictive, like driving too fast around a corner. 

Peter knocks his thighs open and Stiles is in no way fighting him off. Stiles wants this. Despite the rush, Stiles focuses on the flurry of sounds that follows: Peter undoing his fly and opting to pull his cock out versus undress. More lube is added and then - fucking _finally_ \- Peter is positioning himself behind Stiles' spread legs, slick hardness rubbing against Stiles' waiting hole.

Peter folds himself over, all heat and a sturdy mass, and Stiles' is whining - higher and needy - as Peter suggests that he push back, like he had when Peter's fingers had been inside. Stiles won't be able to move all that much with Peter on top of him, but he can manage to arc back and he lifts his ass, rocking back enough to ensure that Peter's thick cockhead does breach him.

* * *

Peter _could_ just thrust inside, could take matters into his own hands and control away from Stiles, and he definitely is tempted. But as he looks down at the length of Stiles' body, his skin flushed rosy pink with need, each freckle and mole standing out in stark contrast against Stiles' complexion, Peter decides against it. Why force it when he can make Stiles oh-so-delicately prove to him how badly he wants this? 

It takes Stiles awhile to get _this_ desperate, after all, and Peter isn't above pressing his advantage. He's _earned_ this, he thinks, and he loves the moments that Stiles gets desperate enough that Peter could feasibly do almost anything to him. 

So he makes his suggestion, but they both know that Stiles doesn't really get to choose. Stiles, for his part, doesn't make Peter wait. With a whine that makes Peter want to sink his teeth in against the meat of Stiles' shoulder, Stiles' back arches and he pushes back with an unexpected eroticism. Stiles Stilinski might not be aware of it, but he _can_ be rather sinuous when he wants to be. 

Peter holds his cock steady as Stiles presses back against him, but not even he can remain unaffected as Stiles' hole gradually spreads and then finally admits the head of Peter's cock. It's sudden, like Stiles' body decides to give in, and Peter's growl is not human as he grits his teeth, the searing tightness of Stiles' body so fucking _perfect_ that it takes control to hold himself back. 

Peter's dick is thicker than his three fingers, after all, and much as he would _love_ to slam in and go for it, he doesn't actually want to break Stiles.

"That's more like it," he praises roughly, teeth grazing the shell of Stiles' ear, and Peter's fingertips feeling the rabbit-quick pulse in Stiles' wrists as he holds them down. He doesn't make Stiles wait as he slowly presses inside, mindful of Stiles' scent, mindful of any discomfort or pain. He goes slow enough for Stiles' body to adjust, but when he's close to bottoming out, Peter goes for it just to hear Stiles react. He snaps his hips, burying his cock fully in Stiles' ass, and Peter's groan is rich as his lips press to the back of Stiles' shoulder. 

"Oh... Stiles. I swear, some days it feels like you were _made_ for this." Peter wets his lips. "Do you know what I think? I think... you need to _feel_ this. Is that what you want? Do you want me to fuck you so hard you'll be able to feel it during the next pack meeting? Sitting there with your dirty little secret and only the two of us knowing why you're _actually_ squirming."

* * *

Peter holds his cock still with his one free hand as Stiles pushes back on it. As the tip of Peter's cockhead stretches him more and pushes in, there is a slight burn, but it's the best thing. And god, it's both too much and perfect. Stiles trembles as Peter takes over, his hips advancing forward and little by little, inch by inch, Peter's dick nudges inside. That is, until Peter decides to roughly thrust the rest of the way in. Stiles cries out, sharp and surprised.

Stiles feels so fucking full and he practically melts, going limp against the bed as his body struggles to adjust to Peter's hard cock filling him. He's breathing deeply, pinned to the bed, Peter's body all hot and hard against him. Stiles loves it. Lives for this. It's not necessarily pleasurable in the typical sense, not like a hand or a mouth around his own dick, but it's intense and focusing. There's no way that Stiles can check out and he fucking loves that this is a reality he wants to stay present for. There's no monsters here, just Peter taking and giving and Stiles receptive and wanting.

Peter's voice is sultry and warm and his words have Stiles groaning. _Made_ _for_ _this_? Stiles is pretty sure his dad would disagree with such a statement, but that's neither here nor there. The question that Peter poses is far more important. Stiles pushes back against Peter's hold on his wrists, not to get away, but to test that Peter isn't playing (he's not). 

"Need to feel this," Stiles gasps out, totally agreeing. "Please, Peter. Fuck me hard. Make me feel you."

* * *

Stiles needs this. Peter isn't going to pretend that he doesn't know that something had likely caused this, but he knows better than anyone that trauma shows itself in odd, often-hidden ways. He's not a saint and he's not going to pick Stiles' mind, as there might not _be_ anything to pick right now. Sometimes trauma rears its head and strikes with no provocation, and if Stiles needs to feel settled and contained and _owned_ , well, who is Peter to stop him? 

Besides, feeling the searing heat of Stiles' body, feeling the way that Stiles arches under him and tests the hold on his wrists, Peter can't deny that he _wants_ this just as much.

He doesn't need Stiles to beg in order to start, but that doesn't mean that he doesn't wait for it. Eyes glinting as Stiles finally gasps under him, Peter flexes his hand on Stiles' wrists, feeling the tension, and really, how can Peter deny such a fervent request? With a low breath of satisfaction, he draws his hand away from his dick and reaches around, lifting Stiles' hips up higher to put him at the angle that Peter knows will drive him wild. 

"Gladly," Peter says, and it sounds halfway between a threat and a promise. 

And with that, he draws his hips back, feels the delicious slide of Stiles' skin over his cock and while he doesn't snap his hips back immediately, when he thrusts, it isn't gentle. The first few are always more careful even if they are harder, but when Peter feels like Stiles is prepared for more - enough that he'll ache for days but won't actually come away with an _injury_ \- Peter allows himself a low groan and then snaps his hips forward, the sound of skin on skin practically obscene as he thrusts hard and slow. 

He wants Stiles to feel this.

* * *

Gone from Stiles' is the earlier restlessness that caused him to leave his own house and show up unannounced at Peter's. Every point of contact, every sensation that Peter forces on him, it focuses Stiles and reaffirms who he is and who he's with. He's here. He's not possessed or losing his mind. He's with Peter. And Peter has him. Stiles can't move, he can't escape, but he's not afraid of Peter. He trusts Peter in this and maybe that should be worrisome, but it really isn't. Peter hasn't done anything that Stiles hasn't consented to or wanted.

And finally, fucking finally, after Peter pulls his hips up, he pushes inside. Stiles has stretched himself enough that Peter's cock is able to slide in without much resistance. Stiles' fingers splay as he tries to not clench around Peter's dick. He's almost sighing in relief at the first thrusts Peter gives. They're thrusts aimed to simply let him get used to it, but Peter doesn't draw it out. No, quickly enough - as if Peter can read his body's need (and maybe he can) - Peter starts going for it.

The hard thrusts are punctuated with Stiles' own cries of pleasure. His own dick - hard and aching - lies trapped against his belly and the blanket. Stiles likes the idea that he's going to likely come on Peter's comforter and it's going to be left messy and smell like him. As best as he can manage, Stiles pushes back, demonstrating his overwhelming encouragement in this. 

"Yeah, fuck yeah," Stiles gasps out, his eyes squeezed tightly shut, not wanting any other distractions as he lets the intensity coil around him.

And right now, Stiles would let a possible snake like Peter coil around him and cut off his breath if it meant Stiles felt safe and contained.

* * *

It's times like this that make Peter glad that he doesn't have any neighbors. He might live in an apartment, but that doesn't mean that he hadn't screened for other people in the building. He has enough money to do what he wants with this place (ergo his _investments_ ) and right now, listening to the way that Stiles cries out as Peter fucks him, he knows it had been money well spent. Stiles might not be one to play up his own pleasure, but he feels it deeply when it happens. 

Like this, worked up and desperate, Peter knows he could quickly become addicted to being with Stiles like this. He's hot and tight and responsive, and when he's keyed up enough, his mouth sometimes runs away from him, and Peter's expecting that very thing to happen this time.

He grips Stiles' wrists harder to feel his fluttering pulse. Peter pins him down, both to let Stiles feel it, _and_ to keep him from sliding further up the bed. Peter has him where he wants him, and as he fucks into Stiles' hole and feels the perfect tight clench around his cock, Peter leans down again and presses his teeth to the back of Stiles' shoulder. It's half a threat, as it always is, but Stiles seems to like the reminder that he's fucking around with a werewolf. Someone who could break him easily. Someone who could bite him bloody. Someone who could stop him if ever he went darkside.

Peter doesn't tell Stiles that he knows about that one. It's fairly obvious.

But so is Stiles' enjoyment. Peter groans roughly as he snaps his hips in only to draw out slowly enough to make Stiles' fingers clench, to make him squirm. But as Stiles' breaths become shallower, as his need begins to climb, Peter doesn't make him wait as long. His thrusts quicken, sharper, and the first time that he grinds deep into Stiles' body, Peter's free hand pushes down on Stiles' back again to pin him securely in place. 

"Look at you," Peter praises silkily. "So perfect. Is this enough, Stiles? Or do you need more?"

* * *

Pressed into the mattress, Peter fucking into him, all of the bullshit is pushed to the back of Stiles' mind. It's a reprieve from lingering ghosts and occasional nightmares that plague him. Stiles knows that there's a persistent trauma that's clung to him like a second skin after the nogitsune, but he tries his best to not let it overwhelm him. 

Because he's alive and he needs to keep on living. He can't let himself get stuck in the sludge of guilt and regret. Maybe no one else would understand why he's sought out Peter, why he's going to continue to seek out Peter, but he doesn't need them to. 

His wrists hurt a little from Peter's grip. There might be bruises but Stiles doesn't care. He'll wear a long-sleeved shirt if need be. Truthfully, he likes the bruises - they're reminders of his time with Peter - of reality. Whenever he needs to, whenever he's alone, Stiles' own fingers can seek out the bruises and he can press down on the colored skin, the slight ache from it usually grounding. 

When he feels Peter's _teeth_ at the back of his shoulder, a thrilling jolt shoots through Stiles. Peter's bitten him a little, hard enough to leave bruises, but not hard enough to bleed. Not yet, at least. 

A few thrusts are slow and purposely meant to tease him, but Peter doesn't tease for long. Thankfully. Peter fucks into him hard and fast and Stiles is shaking and panting, his eyes tightly squeezing shut from the near-assault. He feels wired, sweaty and hot. It's perfect. When Peter's cock is pressed all the way in, Stiles clenches greedily, making his hunger known. 

"More," Stiles demands and tries to rock back and squirm just to feel Peter _not_ let him. "Make me come, Peter."

* * *

This is what makes all those little moments of annoyance worth it. Maybe Peter doesn't mind Stiles' company anymore - he had once. But now, especially with the addition of sex,they've steadily grown more used to one another and Peter knows that this won't be the end. He doubts that there will be an end in sight; Stiles will keep on coming back to him and Peter will keep on letting him. Is it conventional? No. But it's theirs, and it works for them. 

So feeling the way that Stiles clenches down around him when he grinds in deep, Peter's breath hitches sharply and he curses under his breath, feeling the tightness and the heat, feeling Stiles' muscles all but mold to his dick as Stiles struggles under him. Peter holds him firmly, because he knows that Stiles is aching for it, aching for the lack of cacophony in his mind, the lack of stress etched into his body. And Peter can give that to him. Stiles pants breathlessly, desperately, and when Stiles asks for _more_ , Peter obliges.

Gone is the teasing when Peter snaps his hips, driving his cock back into Stiles. He's mindful of his strength, but it ends there. He fucks Stiles like he means it, pleasure curling through him as he holds Stiles down and takes what they both need. Peter's lip curls in a half-snarl, his cheek pressing to Stiles' shoulder as he thrusts, hard and quick. Stiles wants to come, and Peter wants to feel it. And with Stiles' dick sliding against the comforter under him, Peter doesn't doubt that he's close. 

"I know, I know. I will. You can come," Peter breathes, teeth scraping over Stiles' shoulder. "You want to. You want to make a mess of my sheets so that all I can smell for the next _week_ is how fucking _good_ you smell when you come, don't you? You want to leave knowing that I'll touch myself to the memory of you, like this, pinned down and perfect."

* * *

Like this, at Peter's mercy and so wound up, Stiles doesn't care - he'll say _please_ and beg and he'll fluff up Peter's ego more. It hardly matters. He wants to get off, Stiles wants the bliss of orgasm, the content buzzing, his body exhausted and spent. Peter can deliver it, too. Peter has many times. There's no reason to expect that this will be any different. Sure, sometimes Peter likes to tease and draw things out, but in desperate moments like this when Stiles needs it hard and frenzied, Peter gives him it.

Peter doesn't relent, his pace fast and punishing and his hold like iron. But Stiles feels so fucking safe and contained with Peter over top him. Stiles isn't scared or upset. His own arousal climbs as Peter pounds into him, Peter forcing this pleasure in him. Stiles' own erection is trapped between his belly and the bed and Peter isn't wrong - Stiles does want to make a mess on Peter's sheets. He wants to leave his mark, so even if he isn't hanging around, Peter will be reminded of him.

_'--like this, pinned down and perfect.'_

It's those last words that carve through Stiles and he's helpless as the pleasure climbs and shoves him over. He's crying out, his eyes wet from the intensity of his orgasm ripping through him. His cock pulses hot, shooting against the bed and his abdomen as he trembles, his head falling forward. It's mind blowing, but the orgasms with Peter almost always are. Sexual chemistry... Apparently they have it.

Stiles knows he's not perfect - he's far from it - but right now, like this, _they're_ perfect.

* * *

Peter doesn't dwell on what he'd said. He doesn't focus on anything except _Stiles._ Every second is sharp bliss carving through his system like a blade as Stiles pants and squirms and writhes under him, as contained as he is. Stiles' desperation climbs, his scent thicker, and Peter knows that he's going to come whether he wants to or not. Each punishing thrust would move Stiles up the bed were Peter not holding him down, and as he feels Stiles' desperation climb, as he feels the first pulse around his cock that Stiles can't control, Peter growls low under his breath.

When Stiles comes, it's intense. There is little warning between the build up to it and the event itself, but Peter doesn't stop. He grinds deep into Stiles' body, breathing hard and _basking_ in the fluttering, twitching muscles around his cock as Stiles falls apart underneath him. Stiles comes like it's painful, like it's hard for him to think about anything else, and Peter all but buries himself in the moment as he rolls his hips and takes what he needs. 

He lets himself follow not a few seconds later with a satisfied shout that sounds far more like a snarl than anything human. Pleasure rips through him viscerally as he shoots hot into Stiles' hole, feeling wet warmth surround his cock and feeling Stiles shudder his way through it. Like this, poised above Stiles, the both of them breathless and shuddering with pleasure, Peter forgets his earlier annoyance entirely. 

Everything in his world narrows in on Stiles, on the way he feels, the rapid sound of his pulse, and the way that Stiles goes boneless under him, pliant and comfortable as Peter presses him down against the mattress.

He presses his cheek to Stiles' shoulder, breathing hard, Stiles' scent thick around him. And as Stiles' pulse begins to slow back down to normal, as a thick scent of _contentment_ begins to ease out between them, Peter considers pulling himself away, considers drawing back and sending Stiles to shower.

Instead, in a fit of... something - sentiment, endorphin, or some other brief cause of insanity - Peter lowers himself down until his chest is pressed to Stiles' back. Then, quietly, he noses against Stiles' hair, chasing the scent of sex and satiation and contentment. Peter doesn't move away. For the next few minutes, he can let himself enjoy this - enjoy _Stiles_. 

No one has to know.


	2. Intent

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter gives serious thought to just turning around and heading back to his apartment. A quick fuck is one thing, but _baggage_ is another. But before he can decide whether or not it'll be worth it, he realizes he's already under the eave of Stiles' house, looking up at his window, and, well. Why not?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Surprise, not a one-shot! This now has a plot! Sorry not sorry~ More to come as we're rather invested in this 'verse... (ᅌᴗᅌ* )

Stiles used to like riddles, but not anymore. He liked the process of untwisting veiled meanings to solve the puzzle. They had been fun and Stiles loves fun. 

It's not fun now. The nogitsune's voice echoes in his skull, repeating riddle after riddle. Stiles tries to open his own mouth to give the answer - to make it stop - but nothing happens. He's screaming, his mouth open, the intent there, but no sound comes out. It reminds him of old silent films. 

The voice isn't silent, however. It never stays silent. Stiles is trapped, but this time there's no steel biting at his ankle. 

_'Everyone has it, but no one can lose it... What is it? What is it, Stiles?'_ The shadows then become a trap of their own making, tendrils like roots wind around him, pulling him down into the dirt, down into the Earth, down beneath the Nemeton where there's so much power pulsating--

With a gasp, Stiles wakes. He's drenched in nightmare sweat, his clothes sticking to him, blankets long thrown off in a fit. He blinks rapidly - his eyelids the only part of his body that seem to be cooperating. It takes him a good few minutes to realize that he's awake and laying in his bed. He's not in the preserve. He's not in danger. It had been another nightmare then. Nothing to see here folks, move along...

His throat feels hoarse, scratchy. Stiles knows that he'd been screaming. It only gets to this point when his Dad is working an overnight (which he attempts to do less of) because normally his Dad will burst into his room and shake him awake. It's lame to have nightmares, even lamer to have your Dad need to wake you up, but at least Stiles has them less now. That's a plus.

He's never texted Peter after a nightmare, but tonight Stiles does. He tells Peter that he needs the D and to come over and that the coast is clear. It's been almost a week since they last did anything (Peter's fault), so he thinks there's a pretty good chance Peter will oblige. After all, it's not Stiles dropping by unannounced and it's not _that_ late. 

Stiles doesn't know what they'll do, but doing something - anything - with Peter sounds good. He forces himself to get out of bed, turns the lamp on so he can actually see, and then pads to his window, sliding it open all the way because Peter likes making a showy entrance. Stiles doesn't bother showering or stripping. He just grabs his phone and plops back on his bed, his damp t-shirt and boxers clinging to his skin.

He plays a mindless game on his phone while he waits, losing himself in the pixels.

* * *

It's the low, growling buzz of Peter's phone that drags him unwillingly from sleep. The room is pitch black but Peter can still see as he blearily opens one eye and glares over at his phone. A quick check shows that it's not _that_ late, though one in the morning is still bordering on unacceptable but very few people have Peter's number. With a rough sigh, Peter reaches over and checks his phone, and he's only half-surprised to see that the text is from Stiles. 

Peter very nearly tosses his phone away, because texting past midnight is an offense. But just before he dismisses the text as unimportant, the _content_ of it slowly filters in, and Peter hesitates. 

It's been a week since he'd last had Stiles in his bed, or anywhere for that matter. It's been a mess of conflicting schedules, Stiles' father always being home, and too many patrols and meetings. On one hand, it would be simple to dismiss the text and reply at a reasonable time in the morning, but on the other hand, it's the content of the text that catches Peter's attention. Stiles almost never invites Peter over to _his_ place through text. He texts to tell Peter that he's _coming_ over, but the opposite is rare. It's just out of the ordinary enough that Peter has to admit that he's curious.

Plus, frankly, it _has_ been a week, and he's already awake. Sighing, Peter kicks his blankets off and stands, making his way into the bathroom in order to check that his hair is presentable. 

It takes him twenty minutes to get to Stiles' place. The night is dark and his car is quiet, but he still parks it a few blocks away and steps out into the cooler night. He doesn't really _need_ his jacket to chase away the chill, but it's a familiar weight on his shoulders as he walks the distance to Stiles' house. Before he's halfway down the block to Stiles' street, however, Peter's steps slow and he pauses, his eyes narrowing. Then, pointedly, he lifts his chin and takes in a breath of the air.

He can smell Stiles from here. Peter's senses have always been sharp, but even so, smelling him from _this_ far away is a feat. What's more is the quality of the scent. It's sharp and sour, thin but cloying, like a mist of lemon to the back of the throat. It stings and Peter huffs a soft breath through his nose to try and clear it, but it lingers. It explains a lot, though. Peter can recognize the stench of terror when he smells it. Suddenly the late hour makes sense.

Peter gives serious thought to just turning around and heading back to his apartment. A quick fuck is one thing, but _baggage_ is another. But before he can decide whether or not it'll be worth it, he realizes he's already under the eave of Stiles' house, looking up at his window, and, well. Why not?

Vaulting himself up on Stiles' roof, Peter is somehow still silent. He's light and quick despite his bulk, and his claws leave only the barest scratches behind on the shingles of Stiles' roof. He pulls himself up and - seeing as the window is open - Peter steps through like Stiles' bedroom _isn't_ on the second floor. 

The scent is _much_ thicker in Stiles' bedroom and Peter's nose wrinkles slightly. He can hear Stiles' pulse, quicker and unnatural, but at least he's awake. Peter looks around, as though assessing the situation, and then looks back at Stiles with a frown. 

"You reek. If you're not going to shower, at least strip."

* * *

Stiles _does_ prefer to go over to Peter's place. Peter's place is honestly more set up for sexual fuckery than Stiles' _bedroom_ is _..._ Not that they've _only_ done it in Stiles' bedroom. Heh. They've perhaps made a tour around Stiles's place - not necessarily fucking, but Stiles has definitely been pushed up against various walls and doors. 

However, he rarely, if ever, invites Peter over if there's a choice. Sometimes Peter stops by to be inconvenient and just recently Stiles has learned that apparently Peter has even listened to him get off - without Stiles' knowledge or consent even. Stiles thinks that most people would probably be bothered by that not-so-little reveal, but Stiles isn't. Maybe Stiles is just a pervert, but he likes the idea that Peter enjoyed listening to him. 

Stiles' fingers tap on the screen of his cellphone. The mindlessness helps calm him. Playing this game is meaningless, but that's what he likes about it. There's no life on the line, there's no monster of the week, there's nothing evil and old or significant about it. It's just a game and he's just a boy playing it, waiting on his bed for his werewolf fuck-not-quite-buddy to come on over. 

Stiles does startle when Peter suddenly crawls through the window, his pulse spiking and his body twitching. Stupid jerk has always been a great creeper. Stiles' hands drop his phone to the mattress, now completely uninterested in the game he'd previously been playing. Peter is here, after all and Stiles glances up at him. 

But Peter doesn't look pleased by Stiles' sorry state and somehow the bluntness of what Peter says to him riles him up. So Stiles sits up and his eyes narrow at Peter. He then rips off his t-shirt and chucks it at Peter's feet. 

"You fucking strip," Stiles says, almost in challenge.

* * *

Stress sweat has a specific scent. It's thicker, oilier, meant to last. It's the scent of terror before death, which should trigger Peter's instincts in some way, but instead it just makes him want to clean Stiles up and toss his sweaty clothing out of the window. It's not that he's not aware _that_ Stiles has nightmares, but there's something different about seeing the evidence so viscerally in front of him that makes Peter want to get rid of it. To fix it, perhaps, except the desire to _fix_ it might be a little strong. He's not really the fixing type. He's the _doing_ type, and the urge to grab Stiles by the back of his shirt and throw him bodily into the shower is one that he seriously entertains.

At least... he does until Stiles sits up like he's offended, and then rips his shirt off in order to throw it at Peter. It's pitiful, really, except it's _also_ annoying, because the throw doesn't aim itself at his face. Instead it falls down to his shoes, which are slightly porous, and Peter knows immediately that they're going to carry the scent of stress on them. He shoots Stiles a quick scowl, then delicately kicks Stiles' shirt away with all the delicacy of one potentially handling volatile chemicals. Considering who Stiles is, that's not far off the mark. 

"Charming," Peter drawls, but before Stiles can say anything else, he reaches up with one hand and casually unzips his jacket. Then, folding it over Stiles' windowsill, Peter reaches down to the black v-neck he has on underneath and pulls it almost fluidly up and over his head. He steps out of his shoes pointedly, his arms crossed, and then lifts an eyebrow. 

"Are you in any sort of mindset to fuck? You reek of fear. Which, admittedly, between two consenting adults has a time and a place, but somehow I doubt you thought this through that far."

* * *

Stiles doesn't really know why he does it - why he just yanks off his damp t-shirt and chucks it at Peter like a kid having a tantrum - but the fact that Peter just _had_ to comment on his smell _immediately_ irked Stiles. Sure, okay, Stiles' senses aren't as in tune as werewolves, but he's sure he doesn't smell _that_ bad. It's just sweat. And stress. And he's not even _that_ stressed anymore.

He's fine. More or less.

Peter's response is about what Stiles would expect. Peter kicks at his shirt like it contains biochemical traces of some sort. Diva. Stiles can't help but snort a little at it because it's not like Peter hasn't been in contact with his sweat before. (But maybe this kind of sweat smells different? Stiles doesn't know.)

But Peter does begin undressing and Stiles watches in the low light. Peter isn't hurried about it nor is he flashy. It's no striptease - it's just Peter unzipping his jacket and folding it (because heaven forbid the jacket is tossed to the ground). It's Peter smoothly pulling off his shirt and then slipping out of his shoes. Stiles is still winning in the nearly naked game, but he'd not had to dress and drive over. The whole arm crossing pose is ridiculous, but hey, it's Peter. 

"So what? You reek of asshole," Stiles shoots back as he climbs off the bed and approaches Peter. He knows he shouldn't be instigating - he's usually not this bad - but for some reason, Stiles doesn't stop. "Why don't you _make me_ smell like something else then?" 

They've always done better with challenges.

* * *

Stiles doesn't _smell_ like he's in any particular mindset to fuck. The more that Peter stands in his bedroom, the more it registers in his mind. Stiles smells like stress and sweat and a touch of something else, something darker. It's not quite manic, but it's definitely close. Still, the charming little rejoinder makes Peter scoff, rolling his eyes so hard that - had Stiles been the one to do it - Peter would have scathingly asked him if he was trying to get his face stuck like that. He's not particularly charmed by the _tone_ , but since when has he ever been? Stiles isn't exactly polite by nature.

Even so, there's something... intentional in the way that Stiles stands as he climbs off of his bed. Peter can see the pale contrast of his skin against the darkness of his freckles, and while Stiles' skin does glint appealingly in the light from his lamps, the knowledge of _why_ is still less pleasant. But it's the challenge that truly grabs Peter's attention, for there is _intent_ in Stiles' voice. It makes Peter still, makes him reconsider thoughts about just up and leaving to force Stiles to fix this on his own, because if there is one thing that the both of them tend to do well, it's rise to a challenge. 

"Like what?" Peter asks, though his tone suggests that it's not quite a question. He looks Stiles over slowly, from head to toe, as though assessing him, and when he looks back up, it's to meet Stiles' eyes. Peter's never shied away from eye contact.

"Arousal? That's a double-edged sword. Very broad definition there. Because on one hand, I know that you like being held down. It's guaranteed to get you going. But on the other hand, it'd be just as easy to come on you and fix your scent that way. Use your words, Stiles. Simple concept."

* * *

While Stiles knows that he can be a brat and a handful at times, he's never tried to blatantly antagonize Peter. At least not like this. Stiles should know better. This is like playing with fire. Peter could hurt him. Peter could claw out his throat like he had done to Kate Argent. Peter could crush his windpipe. There's a lot of ways that Peter could hurt him, but Stiles knows that Peter won't do any of that shit because Stiles knows a little secret about Peter. 

The secret is: Peter may be on the outskirts of the pack, but Peter doesn't want to be pack-less. Peter doesn't want to be run out of Beacon Hills. Peter doesn't want to leave his only family. So Stiles can't get maimed or seriously injured because Scott and Derek wouldn't let that fly.

But there's something worse than that anyway, something worse than Stiles getting hurt and it's Peter _leaving_. Peter could do it. Peter could fucking leave in a flash and Stiles would be left standing in the middle of his room, nightmare sweat slowly drying on his skin. Peter could stop opening the door at his apartment too. Peter could stop answering his texts and that honestly frightens Stiles more because he _likes_ doing this with Peter. He likes it _a lot._ Stiles tells himself that this fear is just because he has gotten used to his arrangement with Peter and that it makes sense to try and keep things going because having regular sex is good for one's health. It's conveniet. 

But maybe there's something else because Stiles is certain that he could pick up someone or get picked up. He's more confident and experienced now and that goes a long way, but Stiles doesn't _want_ some stranger. Stiles doesn't want some drunk human who's going to fumble and paw at him and not be able to do what Peter can.

So Stiles issues his challenge and he waits a few feet away from Peter as Peter looks him over. Peter talks about holding him down, that he knows it gets Stiles going, and Stiles' pulse gives a little jump at that prospect because hey, it's true. But when Peter goes on and mentions just _coming_ on him, Stiles' stomach gives a weird twist that he doesn't know how to interpret. Stiles pointedly decides to ignore Peter's comment about him needing to use words and it being a simple concept. He _can_ rise above heckling.

Stiles makes a show of backing up slowly, his eyes fixated on Peter's. He sits down on his bed. 

"I want you to come on me then. I want to smell like you. I'm already a mess, right?" He beckons Peter over with a finger curling.

* * *

It would be simple to hold Stiles down. Peter's tempted to do it. Granted, it's mostly because Stiles is purposefully antagonizing him, and holding him down would prove a point, but it goes beyond that too. It's not that Stiles hasn't come to him reeking of stress-sweat before, but it's different like this. In Stiles' room, the scent is much more concentrated, much thicker and permeating. When Stiles comes to Peter at his apartment, the scent is much more faded than this, and it's simple to default into a role where he can mostly ignore that this is the cause.

Peter can't do that now. Stiles smells like stress and fear, and despite the fact that logic should dictate that Peter's presence would make that fear worse, he can already scent a lessening of it in the room. Having Peter Hale pin him down and growl in his ear shouldn't _calm_ Stiles down, but then, the boy's always been wired differently from everyone else in the pack. Peter can relate.

He can tell that his suggestions have hit their mark. As, while the damnable scent of stress still remains, his suggestions inject a small hint of arousal into their air that Peter breathes in instantly. He eyes Stiles as Stiles slowly, intently backs up and then sits down on his bed. There's a glint in Stiles' eyes, something purposeful, and so when Stiles beckons him over, Peter only thinks about it for a few seconds before giving in.

Peter steps over. He briefly considers chiming in about how he could have jerked off at home, but the words die in his throat. Yes, he could have jerked off at home, but he wouldn't have had Stiles there, or his veritable _canvas_ of skin to paint with his come. It's a deeper, visceral twist of satisfaction that winds its way through Peter then as he stops in front of Stiles, considers, and then reaches down to pop the button on his fly.

"Smelling like me _would_ be better than this, yes. Though, really, if you're here, you might as well work a little for it." Peter lifts an eyebrow in challenge. Already he can feel arousal curling low, and it doesn't take him long to harden halfway at the thought alone.

* * *

In porn, women are constantly getting jizzed on. It's kind of a popular thing and it's how most straight porn ends. They'll fuck or whatever and then the girl will suck the dude off or the dude will jerk himself off, and after some bad grunting sounds he'll come all over her face or tits, yeehaw! Stiles has never been overly enthralled with it - either watching it _or_ the thought of doing it. He's actually never really done it - at least not on purpose or with that intent. Peter's never mentioned or asked to do it either... Well, no time like the present, right? Time for some sexual exploration. 

He's betting that he will like it because he's at least mentally turned on by the idea of Peter coming on him. Stiles doesn't really know why or if there even needs to be a why. There probably doesn't need to be a reason.

Peter simply gazes at him, considers, and then strides over. Stiles looks up at Peter - clearly pleased - and he hopes that his relief doesn't show because he doesn't want to be like that. He doesn't want to come across like some desperate loser who'll do anything to distract to himself. He doesn't want to be needy. 

Peter's fingers undo the button on his jeans and Stiles' lips quirk into a grin. Maybe Peter will give him a show?

Apparently not (or at least not yet). Stiles could mention the show-thing, but he hadn't missed the challenge issued to him. Stiles likes sucking cock. He likes doing it messily for some reason, or at least without being self-conscious about any possible spit that dribbles down his chin. 

"Work for it, I shall," Stiles murmurs and his hands are sure as they reach for Peter's jeans. He drags down the zipper and wastes no time in shimmying Peter's jeans down and then his boxers. He leaves both articles of clothing around Peter's thighs because one, he can and two, he likes the idea of Peter still being somewhat dressed.

Peter's cock isn't fully hard, but Stiles doesn't mind. He licks his lips and his hands come to rest on Peter's hips. Stiles spreads his own legs to allow Peter to stand between them as his head moves in, mouth wide and welcoming. Stiles suckles at Peter, not too intensely, but encouraging the flesh to harden more. He throws himself into the task, his tongue licking and sliding against soft skin. 

This. This is better.

* * *

Yes, the added scent on the air isn't particularly appealing, at least knowing that Peter hadn't caused it, but there is something to be said for working with his instincts. While Peter's instincts aren't pleased with the lingering scent of fear in the room, they _are_ interested in the idea of marking Stiles in some way. It's not that Peter hasn't done it before - thrusting hard enough to bruise, biting hickeys far too low for anyone to see, holding Stiles' wrists tight enough to bruise - but there is something very visceral about the idea of marking Stiles with the scent of his come.

Oh, Peter's quite aware of the genre in porn, of how overdone and ridiculous it is. Doing it simply for the shock value of it isn't what he's after. No, as Stiles eagerly spreads his legs and lets Peter step in between them and then immediately goes to Peter's belt, Peter's interest in it is _much_ more centered around Stiles. 

He hadn't washed his sheets following that memorable night a few weeks ago. Not immediately, anyway. Scent means a great deal more to Peter's kind than it does to humans, and he'd absolutely indulged a few times before finally washing the sheets. The thought of Stiles carrying his scent even temporarily is enough to get Peter's attention, and the idea of him wishing it in a way that many would find degrading is _also_ interesting. Peter silently files that away in his mind, along with the way that Stiles doesn't _quite_ ease Peter's jeans and boxers down far enough to kick off. Those thoughts join the knowledge that Stiles likes to feel pinned and likes to struggle, and Peter's relatively sure that he's building a picture here.

But then Stiles' mouth is on him, and no matter how distracted Peter is, it's impossible to ignore _that_. Stiles doesn't suck cock like he's doing it begrudgingly. He sucks like he'll never get the chance again, like he's looking for praise, like he's without shame of any kind. Peter's a fan of it, and so as Stiles' tongue comes to play with his cock as he sucks gently-but-enthusiastically, Peter lets out a low breath and his hand lifts. He pets his fingers through Stiles' hair, encouraging. 

"You certainly don't waste any time," he says softly, appreciatively, his cock aching perfectly in Stiles' mouth as he sucks. And really, there's no reason to hold back. He rocks his hips slightly, just barely enough to feel, and as Stiles sucks and works his cock, it hardens further, filling out and reacting favorably to Stiles' skill. 

* * *

Nightmares happen, but they don't happen every night at least. That's something. Stiles doesn't know why some nights he has 'em and others he doesn't. He won't even be thinking anything creepy or be worried as he crawls into bed and for some reason, Stiles will be pulled down into the murky depths of a nightmare. They suck, but there's nothing he really can do about it. It's not like there's a therapist for supernatural related matters and Stiles doesn't really like talking about it anyway. His Dad has tried - and Stiles loves him for it - but Stiles would rather not talk about any of it.

What he's using his mouth for now, however, is something Stiles does like doing. Stiles probably isn't the most skilled cock sucker out there, but he's always been enthusiastic and that counts for a lot in the bedroom. Right now he isn't thinking about how he or his room smells. Stiles is trying to tap into sex and arousal and _Peter._ He wants those things to layer on top of panic and dread and frustration - to bury them.

Stiles thinks it's working too because when Peter's fingers lift to stroke through his hair, he _does_ feel better. Peter's words, his tone warmer in arousal, also helps Stiles leave the vestiges of his nightmare behind. Stiles' eyelids flutter closed for a moment as Peter's hips sway forward. Stiles doesn't move back or make it difficult - why would he? He likes that Peter likes his mouth. And Peter's dick agrees because it steadily hardens and the task becomes more of a struggle.

But this struggle is familiar. Despite occasionally gagging, it's not terrifying. Stiles begins pulling back in order to start bobbing his head, trying to take as much of Peter's cock into his mouth and the back of his throat. Stiles moans, his fingernails digging into Peter's hips as he purposely sucks harder, now getting determined to make this happen. 

Let it be known that Stiles does well with a challenge that he can do. His own dick is harder and Stiles knows that it's because he wants Peter to come all over him and make a mess.

* * *

If there is one thing that Stiles has in his favor, it's enthusiasm. What he lacks in skill, he more than makes up for in enthusiasm. It's been the case from the moment that Peter had brought him home that first night, and Stiles has never let him down since. Yes, maybe this isn't the healthiest coping mechanism for Stiles, but Peter's not a doctor, and he's not Stiles' father. He's not here to police Stiles' decisions, and if Stiles would rather gag on Peter's cock than talk about his feelings, then who is Peter to argue? 

Sex, in his opinion, is cathartic on its own. Indulgence is hardly a crime if Stiles consents, and given the sloppy, enthusiastic way that Stiles sucks at Peter's cock, he's more than giving his consent.

Peter closes his eyes to enjoy the feeling as Stiles sucks him. The sourness of the scent in the room fades with the added scent of Peter's own arousal, and bit by bit, his concern over it also fades. This is new territory; Stiles has never voluntarily invited Peter over after a nightmare, or in general. Peter has always found his way to Stiles' room on his own power, but this might offer a marked change. As while Stiles' distress does linger, it's faint, muted, and unimportant. He attacks his task with a single-minded focus, and when Peter's cock is thick and hard and throbbing after the attention, he finally grunts and curls his fingers in Stiles' hair to ease him back.

Breathing a little harder, Peter looks down at Stiles, at the obvious rise of Stiles' own dick, and Peter reaches his free hand down to curl around his own cock. He gives himself a slow stroke, almost thoughtful, and wets his lips.

"Never let it be said that you don't throw yourself into everything one hundred percent," Peter says somewhat breathlessly. "But if you keep that up, I'm going to come down your throat, not on your skin."

* * *

This may be simple but it's not necessarily a walk in the park. Even so, sucking cock is within Stiles' control. Peter may get occasionally pushy and makes him gag, but it doesn't scare Stiles (and sometimes he'll just pinch Peter to get back at him anyway). The discomfort is manageable because Stiles is fully aware and understands just what the fuck is happening. If his jaw hurts, if Peter chokes him a bit with his cock? It's no big deal because Stiles knows the why and who. It's nothing out of the ordinary and Peter seems to have a knack for knowing just how far to push him too. 

It's never gone too far.

Maybe this is new - asking for Peter to come over pretty much right after a nightmare - but new doesn't necessarily mean there's something wrong with it. Stiles knows that Scott has his back and would pick up if he called or even come over, but sometimes Stiles doesn't want to bother those closest to him. They already have their own shit to deal with - and yeah that counts for Peter, but Peter doesn't seem like the type to be opening up and getting touchy feely. Peter understands what he needs, even if it may not be the most appropriate thing to do, Peter will usually go along with it.

Besides, Peter gets an orgasm out of his little trip here. That's nothing to scoff at. Stiles sucks. He licks. He slurps. He holds nothing back, enjoying how Peter's cock only gets harder and bigger from what he's doing. And Peter has a great specimen. By the time Peter eases him back, Stiles' cheeks and lips are flush, his boxers contain a very obvious boner too.

He gazes up at Peter, catching his breath as Peter explains the dilemma. Well, it's not really a dilemma, but Stiles' reasoning skills aren't working the best right now. He does want Peter to come on him, to mark him up and apparently change his scent. Stiles doesn't know if this particular want is only popping up because of the bad night or if it's legitimately some kink of his, but Peter seems more than willing to oblige, so why shouldn't Stiles push for this? Sexual experimentation is normal.

"On my skin," Stiles confirms as he leans back. He's not sure if he should lay down or what, but Peter can push him back if that's the case. It makes sense that Peter should finish himself off, but Stiles' right hand leaves Peter's hip to apparently help. 

* * *

It takes Peter a few moments to come back to himself once he manages to ease Stiles away from his cock. He can say what he'd like to about Stiles calling him over after a nightmare, but it's not like there isn't anything in this for him. Stiles knows what the hell he's doing, and for a second, Peter does consider changing his plan. As much as coming on Stiles' skin and marking him up with his scent does appeal, all it takes is a quick glance at Stiles' lips to make him hesitate.

Stiles' lips are pink and slick and swollen, and there's something about the deep flush of his cheeks and the obvious rise of his dick in his boxers that makes Peter reconsider. Barring a few initial attempts, where Stiles had been finding his stride, he's never given Peter a bad blowjob. He's versatile and he throws himself into everything he attempts one hundred percent. Even gagging, he doesn't back down, and the thought of having Stiles' mouth back around him _is_ tempting...

But when Stiles leans back and asks for it on his skin, that little temptation lifts away. Maybe it's not the pleasure of Stiles' mouth that will get him off, but the animalistic side of Peter's mind is very appreciative of the idea of marking him up. Maybe it won't be with fangs or claws, but that's likely to his benefit. Peter doesn't want to go back to his apartment and find a supernatural firing squad on his ass for daring to touch their little sweetheart. If only they knew how _much_ touching that Peter's been doing over the last few months. 

Peter watches as Stiles' hand slides over, undoubtedly moving to help him, but while he does consider it, something else catches his attention. A memory from last week, the bold statement that Peter could make Stiles _beg_ just by watching Peter touch himself. It hadn't been a bluff; it's just a matter of judging need and arousal, and given the hazy, desperate look in Stiles' eyes, and the jut of his cock, Stiles is _plenty_ needy. 

So Peter catches Stiles' wrist before his hand can make contact. Then, holding Stiles' gaze for a thoughtful second, Peter strokes his hand over his dick once, a long, slow movement. His thumb blatantly rubs against the spit-slick head, rubbing Stiles' saliva into his skin like a different kind of lubricant. It is... a test, of sorts. To see how Stiles might react to being teased. Peter's no saint, after all. 

* * *

Maybe fooling around with Peter is fucked, but Stiles doesn't care. What's actually fucked is getting possessed by some malevolent trickster fox and killing innocent people. What's fucked is twisting the sword in his best friend's stomach. What's fucked is yelling ' _shoot me!_ ' in front of his Dad while Argent had pointed a gun at him. What's fucked up is all of the crazy shit that happens in Beacon Hills. 

Maybe no one would understand what he sees in Peter, but no one has to. This is _their_ thing. Peter isn't his therapist. Peter isn't really even his friend... not that Stiles wants anything bad to happen to Peter because then who would Stiles go to? Peter doesn't ask him annoying nagging questions. Peter doesn't treat him like something breakable.

Stiles knows that he's _only_ human and humans, compared to werewolves, are like wet noodles. Even so, Stiles is tougher than he looks and Peter seems to have this intrinsic understanding of just how far he can push. And Stiles likes being pushed. He likes the strain. He likes the intensity that sometimes edges into pain, but never hurts him in any sort of lasting bad way. 

_Peter_ is intense, but Peter is also real and Stiles likes these pockets of time where he can get out of his head and live and _feel_ and nothing evil happens as a result. 

Stiles does intend to help Peter out. He'd been using his mouth, so why not his hand? But his hand is stopped, his wrist grasped firmly and Stiles shoots Peter a quizzical look. But Peter simply stares at him, almost challenging, and as soon as Stiles' eyes detect movement, they're flicking down to watch _Peter's_ hand touch his cock in a slower drag. When fingers rub teasingly it all makes sense.

 _Oh_. "You're putting on a show?" Stiles asks, his voice still rough. He pulls his hand away and leans back a little. If that's the case, he's going to enjoy this. Stiles blatantly watches, expectant and now more engaged than ever.

* * *

Peter has listened to Stiles doing this very thing on more than one occasion. Quiet and not-so-quiet stolen moments in the night where Stiles lets go of the voices and whispers in his mind in order to indulge himself properly. It's always erotic, both because Stiles doesn't know that Peter is listening, and because he is just as authentic on his own as he is while in bed with Peter, begging for more, desperate and straining. 

Those thoughts linger in Peter's mind as he looks down at Stiles, as he tracks his movements. It takes a second for understanding to dawn, but when it does, Peter sees it in Stiles' eyes just as he hears it in Stiles' pulse. Stiles breathes, and Peter can practically taste the arousal on the air as Stiles leans back on the bed. A show might be easier were he also laying back on the bed, but Peter doesn't move to do it. Instead he watches Stiles, his gaze sharp and piercing, and he suddenly suspects that Stiles prefers it this way.

Stiles likes being contained, likes being focused. There is something animalistic in standing over him while he's prone, and Peter basks in it. 

He doesn't rush as he strokes his cock, each pass of his hand deliberate. Yet while Stiles often throws his head back and basks in this, Peter doesn't. His breathing does deepen, and whenever he rubs his thumb just under the head of his cock, he allows himself a soft, indulgent moan, but there is a marked difference in the way that Stiles puts on a show to the way that Peter does, and that difference is _intent_. 

As while Stiles touches himself to entice, when Peter's hand grips enough to deepen the flush to his cock, he watches Stiles with hunger in his eyes, as though this is just another way to bend him over and fuck him until he's loose and boneless with it.

As if to draw even more attention to it, Peter slows his strokes to a stop before too long, then begins to move his hips. It's not necessary to jerk off like this, but as he rolls his hips and tightens his hand, fucking his fist, he continues to watch Stiles. Peter knows Stiles' favorite pace - the one that gets him begging and desperate - and it's no coincidence that _that_ is how fast he fucks his own fist. 

* * *

Stiles does remember Peter bragging about putting on a show and how he could get Stiles begging. Before that, Stiles had learned that Peter had been listening to _him_ get off without his knowledge or consent. Stiles hadn't exactly felt bothered by it then and he still doesn't feel upset by that reveal now. He knows most people would probably be wigged out by it, but Stiles isn't most people and he never has been. 

In a way it's flattering. Stiles likes that Peter was interested enough to first come by and then stay for a listen. Stiles has never thought that he was anything special or interesting while getting off, but Peter must see something (and that feels good, doesn't it?).

Peter doesn't even give a verbal response, but it's not needed. It's obvious enough that Peter is putting on a show and Stiles is more than on board for this unfolding in front of him. Peter remains standing over him and Stiles can admit that the height difference between them currently adds something really appealing.

Stiles watches blatantly, eyes wide and locked onto this image. He watches Peter touch, he watches Peter's thumb rub against the sensitive underside and knows how intense that feels. Stiles' own mouth parts after Peter gives a quiet moan. Peter's never been overly noisy in bed so any sound have always been greatly enjoyed. Stiles' own dick gets harder as he sees the heat and hunger in Peter's eyes. 

There's a very clear and embarrassing whine that slips out of Stiles' mouth as Peter begins jerking into his fist. Peter looks so fucking unrepentant and Stiles thinks that that may be what's really getting him right now. Peter is shameless as his hips thrust and fuck into his own fist. Stiles licks his lips, his fingers twitching at his side as he begins to pant and squirm, arousal climbing higher. He can imagine Peter fucking him this fast, this hard. 

Peter _has_. Stiles tenses and he briefly considers touching himself, but he doesn't want to take away from this moment.

So he doesn't. Stiles continues to watch Peter, his cock rock hard and throbbing, but the feel of bandages and the smell of smoke is nowhere to be found.

* * *

Never let it be said that Peter doesn't go for what he wants. It had been a vague whim a week ago, to see the look in Stiles' eyes were Peter to ever put on a show, and now that he's here and Stiles is staring at him, rapt with attention, Peter can't find a single fault in his choice. The saliva on his dick is quickly drying, which makes the sensation a little rougher, a little dryer, but Peter doesn't slow down or stop. A little roughness has never bothered him, and the extra bite of sensation just reminds him how raw it is, to be jerking himself off to the sight of Stiles sprawled and rapt with attention. 

Peter looks him over blatantly as his breathing deepens, each exhale a little harder, a little rougher. His pupils dilate as he admires every inch of Stiles, from his own blown pupils and flushed cheeks and lips, to the way his cock is already hard between his legs. Peter basks in the sight of how badly that Stiles _wants_ him. Being desired by someone he desires has always been a thrilling feeling, and watching as Stiles' hands twitch with the urge to move - to touch him, perhaps to touch himself - is powerful. Peter wets his lips with a flick of his tongue, his chin lifting and gaze refocusing on Stiles' eyes as he fucks into the tunnel of his fist.

He doesn't doubt that he could make Stiles beg just like this, just by watching and _wanting_ to touch. Stiles is too tactile; keeping his hands off has never really been his strong suit, especially when he's worked up. But as Peter feels his own pleasure rising steadily, he knows that he can add a little more to this moment. There's nothing wrong with adding a little extra incentive.

"Keep your hands at your sides. I want you to watch me. _Only_ me. You're not to touch yourself unless I tell you to," Peter breathes, his voice low, barely the rumble of a growl. He closes his eyes on a particularly good stroke, one complete with a grind of hips, and when he opens them, they're burning electric blue. 

"But," Peter adds, enunciating the 't' with a smirk tugging lazily at his lips. "I'm not going to disallow a little begging. You do sound so sweet when you beg, Stiles."

* * *

It's hard to clock just how much time has passed since this began. It feels like time can't decide if it's being fast-forwarded or slowed down. Either way, Stiles knows he definitely wants to remember this. He wants to use this as some delicious spankbank material for later. Scratch that, he's _going_ to. There's no stopping him. He can think about this whenever he wants - maybe even next time he gets off.

Stiles will remember how Peter looks with his jeans and boxers only pulled down enough for his cock and balls to be free, his hips jerking forward with intent, the muscles on his body tensing from the exertion of the task. Stiles will revisit and revel in Peter's single-minded focus, in how Peter never looks away from him and how Stiles knows that Peter is getting off on _his_ enjoyment too. Stiles imagines that he's going to get off _hard_ thinking about Peter coming all over him too.

Patience and Stiles have never been the best of friends and it's no different here. There's just something so hot about seeing Peter jerk off unabashedly with the intent of marking him up. It's unrestrained, maybe a little wild, but it really appeals to Stiles (and what else could they get into, he wonders). Given his level of arousal and the fact that his own dick is throbbing to be touched, it's amazing that Stiles hasn't actually gone for it. 

Then Peter's commands come and Stiles considers getting indignant because he's not sure if he _wants_ to be bossed around - but wait, what is he thinking? Of course, he wants Peter to be all growly and dominant with him. Bright, supernatural blue eyes suddenly meet his and Stiles knows that yeah, he wants to listen. He's _going_ to listen.

_'You do sound so sweet when you beg, Stiles.'_

On principle, because Peter is doing more than hinting at him begging, Stiles wants to _not_ do it. 

"Oh, do I now?" Stiles asks, and it's supposed to be challenging, maybe a bit bratty, but instead, his voice sounds far too breathless. Shit. "You think I'm going to whimper and whine to touch myself? Beg for you to-uh shoot all over me? Plead to be fucked?" 

These are supposed to be rhetorical or something, but Stiles feels himself growing more antsy and desperate. He bites his bottom lip, his hands now shaking before he grasps in frustration at the sheets. 

* * *

Peter has been doing this with Stiles for long enough to _know_ him. To know how his mind works. Stiles is a stubborn man, but he's not immune to the power of suggestion, and that is precisely what Peter is counting on as he says what he does. It's not a lie; Stiles _does_ sound sweet when he begs, and Peter's long been able to draw the best sounds of desperation out of him. And even though he expects Stiles to attempt to put up an indignant front, Peter can still smell the arousal on the air. He can still smell _Stiles_ , and while the sourness of fear still lingers on the air, it's quickly being overtaken by arousal. 

Just as Peter had expected, Stiles tries to push back, tries to pretend as though he's not affected, but Peter knows better. Hell, he can hear it in Stiles' voice - breathless and desperate as his cock curves up blatantly towards his belly, aching for attention that Stiles isn't allowed to give himself. Peter breathes out, a soft hum of low satisfaction at just _how_ desperate Stiles sounds despite not wanting to be. It's heady and intoxicating.

"Mm..." He twists his hand suddenly, working it around the head of his cock with a pointed focus. "Yes, Stiles. I think that that's _exactly_ what you're going to do for me." 

Peter's eyes remain the sharp blue that he knows gets Stiles' pulse racing like mad. As it is, he looks so beautifully desperate that Peter has to spare a few moments of thought to keeping himself from getting too close. It _is_ difficult, especially with Stiles looking like all he wants is to be able to move, to touch, to have Peter come all over his skin. It's thrilling in a way that very little is these days, and it means that when Peter begins to fuck into his fist again, the first snap of his hips is a little more desperate. It's closer to what he'd do to make Stiles scream were he fucking him.

"I think you're going to beg because you _need_ to," Peter adds, his voice low on a half-moan of pleasure. "Because you can handle being desperate. You could handle it if I told you I didn't want you to come. But I don't think you'd want me to stop. To _not_ mark you up and carry my scent."

* * *

Stiles _does_ beg. He knows it. Peter knows it. They both know it. On average it usually happens every _other_ time that they get together. Something like that anyway (Stiles would rather believe that be the case than the idea that he begs _every_ time, cuz' c'mon).

It's not a big deal. Logically Stiles knows that he should just do it because they both fucking like it, but pushing back and antagonizing Peter is just something that happens naturally for Stiles. It's what they're both used to; it's the song and dance that they do and boy, can they put on a show! 

Stiles can't be super agreeable immediately and Peter _can_ handle it, pushing back in return. Besides, they both know Stiles is kinda easy (at least with Peter) so he has to push back in something, right? Right.

Peter will see through his feeble attempt, but that doesn't matter. By now, this is almost like a game for them. Stiles shoving back with words because he doesn't have the supernatural strength to do the actual action. But his words aren't honed like weapons, not really. Neither of them lash out cruelly although they could so very easily do it. They have enough ammunition on each other, but what's the point of trying to hurt feelings? They're both already hurt and kinda broken anyway. Might as well commiserate and fuck around instead.

Stiles isn't surprised in the least that Peter out and admits that he wants Stiles to do all the begging. Stiles continues to watch the show, Peter's eyes bright and blazing (and maybe even beautiful). Peter is being a little rough with his dick considering the no lube thing and Stiles could offer his lube up, but Peter knows where it is, if he wanted it, he'd get it. Stiles' hands shake with the concentrated effort it takes to _not_ touch himself or Peter, but he can do this. He likes the struggle, enjoys the tension thrumming through his body.

Then Peter _really_ gets into it, fucking his fist hard and fast and exactly the way Stiles loves. He licks his lips, his own hips squirming, the ache of wanting to be fucked ever present, his cock rubbing against the fabric of his boxers but giving him no relief. 

Peter speaks again and Stiles doesn't know how Peter can string together such an argument when going to town on the jerking off front. But it's not just Peter pushing back, it's Peter insisting that Stiles can _handle it._

That makes _all_ the difference and it's like a dam breaking, the sheer want and desperation slamming into Stiles. 

"Please don't stop," Stiles grits out, his hands pulling at his sheets almost violently. His eyes are narrowed and deadly serious. "Don't you fucking stop until you make a mess all over me, until I smell _just_ like you." It almost sounds like a threat.

* * *

Peter knows that Stiles will give in the second he finishes talking, because despite the lingering scent of uncertainty in the air, what overshadows it more than anything is a sudden spike of _want_. Stiles' pupils blow darkly and his lips are so flushed from Stiles biting them that Peter suspects that they'll be tender in the morning. He looks like the picture of indulgence, like if Peter told him to, he'd immediately flip onto all fours and let Peter fuck him. Stiles looks beautifully desperate, and it's a heady feeling, watching Stiles fall so perfectly apart at the mere _suggestion_ of what Peter could do.

So when Stiles begs, Peter's not surprised. It's immediate and rough, like gravel on sandpaper, a rasp of a request that curls through Peter's body like smoke. Yet more than that is _how_ Stiles talks to him after. There's something fierce in his eyes, something threatening, and Peter latches onto it, his own eyes burning brighter as he lets out a breathless chuckle of pleasure and satisfaction. He curses roughly under his breath, a long, drawn out _fuck_ that sounds like the act itself.

" _There_ he is," Peter says, voice all but dripping in smug satisfaction. "That's what I wanted. If you want me to mark you up, sit up for me. Nice and tall."

Peter waits until he hears Stiles shifting and only then does he finally stop playing. His thrusts are no longer just aimed to entice, to tease. They're harder, quicker, for his own purpose. And when he feels the slow-building pleasure curling almost directly from the tips of his toes all the way up into his dick, Peter reaches a hand out. It's quick, without warning, and he curls his fingers roughly into Stiles' hair, a little coarser with sweat from his nightmare, but no less thrilling. Peter grunts, the sound tight with pleasure, and he stills his hips as his hand takes over, jerking quick and twisting his wrist on every second stroke. Never once does he look away from Stiles.

And seeing Stiles looking up at him with expectancy and demand in his eyes, with the _desire_ to be claimed, Peter doesn't make himself hold back. He pulls Stiles closer by his hair and when orgasm finally crashes down over him, Peter snarls with it, shooting one stripe of come over Stiles' cheek and the bridge of his nose. He doesn't risk the rest, though, and as pleasure claws into him, Peter comes hotly all over Stiles' skin, across his throat, down his chest, with a few stray drops falling onto the front of Stiles' straining boxers. 

* * *

Stiles doesn't get like this too often. He doesn't let himself shift into this more focused, serious headspace that maybe, just maybe edges into being darker too. He doesn't do this with random hookups either, at least Stiles hasn't in the past. 

Because darker and threatening can remind Stiles of the chaos of the nogitsune. It can feel like the bite of steel around his ankle, it can sound like whispered sinister taunts...

But right now, sitting on his bed, his dick hard but being contained by his boxers, Stiles doesn't feel out of control. Peter is standing over him, fucking his fist with abandon, eyes still bright and sharp with interest, and Stiles is fully present. He's so engaged with this. It's no longer just an idea or prospect that Peter might come on him - it's a fact. Peter _will_. Peter's going to. And Stiles wants it badly. He won't be able to smell the intricacies of Peter "marking" him, but that doesn't stop the craving to feel dirty and desired.

Peter likes his answer, meeting his intensity with a curse. Stiles isn't even bothered by the blatant satisfaction that is evident in Peter's voice. He obliges Peter, sitting up and attentive. Stiles is enthralled and completely taken by this moment and it only gets better when Peter suddenly grips at his hair. Stiles' tongue darts out to wet his lips, curious if Peter will come on his mouth. He'd be okay with that.

Stiles doesn't have much time to ponder on it because Peter is getting closer and Stiles' own pulse climbs, the excitement growing. His head is yanked closer and after a snarl, Stiles's eyelids flutter as Peter shoots over his face and thankfully nothing gets in his eyes. Peter finishes jizzing down his throat and chest and Stiles' lips curve into a grin. The come is warm on his skin but he makes no effort to try and clean himself up. He's positive that he likes how he looks.

"I want to come," Stiles then states insistently, giving Peter an expectant look. 

* * *

Something in Peter's instincts lets a howl rip from its chest, and while it doesn't come to Peter's lips, it rings in his mind as he watches Stiles. He's so connected to this moment, so engaged, and yet he doesn't draw back or complain when hot stripes of come coat his skin, overlaying the stench of fear with the fascinating scent of belonging. Peter knows that half of it is in his own mind, that no matter how strong the scent of sex is, it can't really bleed out the fear, but it might as well. All _he_ can smell as he drags in deep breaths, pleasure pulsing hot through him, is his scent on Stiles' skin.

And Stiles takes it. He doesn't protest, doesn't jerk back, just sits there and allows it, and there's something about the blatant obedience from someone smart enough to know how reckless this is that _really_ does it for Peter. Jerking off has never felt this good, and there's a heady, lingering pleasure that claws at him even once orgasm fades to aftershocks. 

It feels like power. Like a spark. Like something he could easily grow to crave.

Stiles' voice is what brings Peter's thoughts back to the present moment, and he shakes off the lingering desire to press Stiles against the mattress and _really_ claim him. He's not so reckless, but when Peter registers what Stiles wants, well, who is Peter to argue with him? Still... Stiles _had_ lured him over under slightly-false pretenses. He's not about to reward that with _his_ hands.

"No one's stopping you," he says, still a little breathless, but the blue in his eyes has yet to dim. Peter swallows, and when he tightens his hold in Stiles' hair again, it's to yank him closer, forcing Stiles to move himself to the edge of the bed.

"If you want to come, then come. You can touch yourself, but remember what I said. You keep your eyes on me. _Only_ on me. If you close them, you don't _get_ to come."

* * *

Remnants of Stiles' nightmares have now slunk into the shadowy corners of his bedroom - good fucking riddance to them. The fear and uncertainty have been replaced with a definite craving and pounding arousal. Stiles knows that he'd been a little underhanded in getting Peter over here - because he hadn't been forthcoming over his text. Of course Peter had figured it out quickly enough. Chemosignals and all. Frankly Stiles is glad he'll never know what fear and uncertainty smell like. One perk of being a measly human...

Peter's come steadily cools on his skin and Stiles doesn't care. It's just semen. He can wash it off later. Besides, Peter looks _good_ coming down from his orgasm. It's only now that Stiles realizes that they've never had continuous eye contact like this, but so what? It doesn't actually feel weird. If anything the bright blue of Peter's eyes feels like a beacon Stiles is drawn to (because if Stiles had been a werewolf, his eyes would have been blue too).

Apparently, he's now allowed to touch himself (which means that _Peter_ won't be doing it). Still, it's clear that Peter isn't done with him. Not fully, at least. Stiles hisses as his head his jerked via Peter's grip in his hair and he instinctively moves to lessen the pain. He's now on the edge of the bed, head tipped up as Peter delivers his own challenge. 

The position is provocative and Stiles' dick practically aches at Peter's instructions because somehow having guidelines is apparently hot (or maybe it has something to do with Peter demanding his full attention still). For a brief second Stiles wonders if he's allowed to blink, but he doesn't waste time thinking about it. 

His hands let go of the sheets to work down his boxers far enough down that his balls and cock are free. Stiles' fingers then swipe up some of the come from his own chest before purposely smearing the glob on the tip of his cock. Peter's come doesn't make great lube, but why not have Peter 'claim' him here too? 

"You narcissist," Stiles breathes out, but it's more than apparent that he's both amused and still into it. His hand then wraps around his cock and he begins to stroke. Stiles' eyes don't look away from Peter.

* * *

Peter doesn't need to wonder if Stiles will do this. He knows that Stiles will. They've been pushing one another for months now, always one-upping, always changing the stakes, and it's an interesting pastime that Peter's grown fond of. It's also one where he has been able to learn the rules of engagement, and he's found that there's almost nothing that Stiles won't do when he's desperate enough.

He's desperate now. Peter doesn't need to see him pull his cock out to know that Stiles will listen to him. The heat in Stiles' eyes makes it obvious enough and Peter _basks_ in it as he watches Stiles from so close. He doesn't break eye contact, doesn't stop admiring the desperation that is practically etched into every line of Stiles' face when he gets himself ready. It's addicting to watch every flicker of expression and every twitch of pleasure on Stiles' face. Yet as Peter keeps him in place with his hand curled in Stiles' hair, he doesn't miss the vague movement in his peripheral vision as Stiles swipes some of Peter's come off of his stomach and uses it to slick his own dick. It's _just_ blatant enough to make Peter growl in satisfaction.

"Guilty as charged," Peter says smoothly, because he's never denied claims of narcissism. Stiles' intense focus on him is _thrilling_ , and the faintly-slick sounds of Stiles' hand finally finding his cock and starting to stroke it only make the situation better. 

Peter doesn't look away. Some might claim that it's the act of jerking off that is the most erotic, but to him, it's the micro-flickers of helpless pleasure in Stiles' eyes, the fixated look that Stiles gives him as his pleasure climbs. It's a beautiful, pleasurable suffering, and it's all for him. He admires the stripes of come on Stiles' skin - further proof of claim - and he breathes in the scent of it.

"Not that you mind. You get off on it, otherwise you wouldn't have called me over. So let me see you, Stiles. Let me see you come because _I_ want you to."

* * *

A narcissist is hardly the worst thing Stiles could call Peter. Stiles has _definitely_ said and thought worse about Peter. Granted, Stiles hadn't uttered his unsavory nicknames like 'extra-crispy Peter-wings' or 'resurrecto-dog' around Peter (he doesn't actually have a death wish). But those jokes... Well, Stiles doesn't actually use them now and he knows that it's not Peter who has really changed. 

Peter is still an asshole at times. Peter chooses when he wants to be helpful to the pack and when he wants them to scramble. It's beyond frustrating, but Stiles kind of gets it. Peter is barely _in_ the pack to begin with. No one has really forgiven him. It doesn't seem to matter how much Peter helps or doesn't help, most of Stiles' friends have their mind set on not liking Peter.

Stiles doesn't exactly known when _his_ own opinion changed, but somewhere along the line, little by little, it has. Stiles doesn't consider Peter to be the _good guy_ per se, but he doesn't see him as an evil villain either. Stiles knows evil. There's some space in between, some shade of grey that Peter resides in and that's good enough for Stiles.

 _This_ is good for Stiles. Regularly getting off is good. It's healthy. Maybe no one else would understand how jerking off, covered in come with Peter forcing his head up and their eyes locked, could be good, but Stiles knows that it is.

It's intense and focusing, like a blade poised over his skin, like a gun pointed against his temple. Stiles doesn't dare look away. He doesn't blink although he has the urge to, his eyes starting to burn. Stiles' strokes the way he likes, his chest rising and falling faster as he breathes quicker from exertion.

_'So let me see you, Stiles. Let me see you come because **I** want you to.'_

It's Peter's urging, Peter's silky-but-rough voice that has Stiles suddenly grinning, pleasure clawing at him. 

"Of course," he whispers back. His hand moves faster and he doesn't look away or blink. Stiles feels this moment completely, enjoying every point of contact, every bit of delicious tension mixing with pleasure. 

When Stiles comes, his mouth is parted but still curved at the corners. What Stiles isn't aware of is the quick flash where his irises both darken and brighten, seeming to take on a lustrous black sheen before returning back to normal.

He blinks, sputtering as he catches his breath, his palm covering the head of his cock and now coated with his own spunk. Stiles doesn't even think. He reaches out and smears it down Peter's abs. 

"Now we're even."

* * *

Peter knows that it will only be a minute or so longer before Stiles comes. He can smell it on the air, can feel it burning across his skin as a form of delicious expectation. And as Stiles' scent climbs, Peter drinks in the sight of him, holding him firmly. His grip is tight, likely still painful, but Stiles handles it well enough, meeting Peter's eyes blatantly with open eye contact despite the growing pleasure within. It's admirable to watch him follow instructions so well, and Peter basks in it.

Suddenly the deception doesn't feel nearly as annoying as it had been. How could he stay annoyed with someone so willing to do exactly what Peter tells him to? So Peter watches, admiring each second as Stiles' pleasure climbs, as his hand jerks hard over his cock, and as Stiles' lips pull into a smile. It's faint, hardly out of place, but it still strikes Peter as slightly odd. Honestly, something tickles insistently at the back of Peter's mind, like a vaguely forgotten memory, but he can't place it.

But then the scent of arousal climbs and Peter watches as Stiles' mouth falls open. He doesn't need to look to see the way that Stiles' cock jerks between his legs, and Peter growls low in his throat, satisfied, as the scent of Stiles' come begins to cut through the remnants of the sourness in the air.

It's quick. It's barely a flicker. Yet despite how thrilled that Peter is that Stiles had _obeyed_ him so beautifully, he's not so far gone that he misses it when something... changes. 

Given the eye contact, there's no way that Peter _could_ have missed it. He catches the flicker to Stiles' irises, catches the sudden flood of black, and Peter stills immediately. For a moment, his breath hitches, expression going from lazily satisfied to immediately sharp and wary, and for good reason. He's been dead and brought back often enough to know how valuable a trait self-preservation is. That half-breath carries with it a different scent, something delighted and relieved and curling, something... other. Still _Stiles_ , but the feeling is off. 

Before Peter can really look too deeply into it, or examine the sudden shift in the chemosignals in the room, Stiles' eyes bleed back into the dark, honeyed color that they reach during orgasm and the signal fades. Peter doesn't blink, and for a split second, he wonders if he'd just imagined it...

Stiles' hand is what snaps him back to himself. Peter blinks and looks down, taking note of the come smeared across his abdomen. He blinks again and his eyes dim back to normal with a low, irritated sound. He hadn't necessarily _told_ Stiles that he could do that, but normally Peter wouldn't argue. He's just not pleased at having been caught off guard.

" _Really,_ Stiles?" Peter grouses, finally releasing Stiles' hair like nothing had happened. He's quite meticulous in mimicking his normal behavior _exactly_ as he steps back, Stiles' come wet along his skin. Peter reaches over for Stiles' dresser, pulling out one of his shirts without thinking about it so he can mop the mess up. "Was that _absolutely_ necessary?"

* * *

Orgasms with Peter have always been great. Zero complaints (even when Peter makes him beg for it or edges him or is just a general asshole about something). Although, technically, Peter has only _facilitated_ this orgasm because Peter hadn't directly touched him. Just a hand in his hair, fingers gripping tightly, causing his scalp to sting. Either way, Stiles is more than satisfied because Peter had come over, distracted him, and made him feel blissed the fuck out. It beats trying to get over a shitty nightmare and wasting hours on his phone. This is better. It's been fun.

And now they're both messy. Stiles also likes this. His face feels a little itchy from the drying come, but he'll take care of it as soon as Peter leaves. To Stiles' amusement, his antics haven't pleased Peter, but Peter deserves it. If he's dirty and marked up, why shouldn't Peter be the same? Makes complete sense to him, yep.

Stiles scowls as Peter decides to use one of his _clean_ shirts to dry his stomach off. He has a roll of toilet paper on his dresser and that would have worked just fine, but noooooo, Peter needs to be extra. No surprise here.

"Necessary? Probably not," Stiles answers pleasantly enough. He reaches for his own discarded shirt from earlier and wipes his wet hand on it (because _fine_ , toilet paper can leave little white bits that are annoying). "But it was fun and how could I resist that?" 

Peter only scowls as he finishes cleaning and then promptly re-dresses. 

Stiles just grins as he gets up and he heads to the bathroom to clean himself up. He hears Peter leave his room, but it doesn't bother Stiles. After all, he'd gotten what he wanted.


	3. Reckless

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's a childish, petty thing to do, but hey, Peter _had_ told him to have fun and Stiles _is_ having fun. He's simply doing a bit extra by reporting and flaunting his fun. Nothing wrong with communicating it to Peter. If Peter is actually busy with someone else, Peter won't check his phone. Maybe this is a little test, too. Then again, if it's a prostitute, Peter likely doesn't care if he's being rude. Actually, Peter wouldn't care at all even if it was an _associate_ that he was having sex with. If Peter wanted to check his phone, he damn well would

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is us: (｡◝‿◜｡)
> 
> ENJOY!

Not that Stiles would ever admit it to Scott or any of their friends for that matter, but there's definitely a part of his brain that enjoys the challenge of dealing with a supernatural threat. Now, Stiles doesn't want anyone to get hurt or die. Hell no, he's not some psycho... It's just that, he feels engaged and even useful if he's putting up an evidence board and trying to find patterns. Stiles really does enjoy the challenge of problem solving.

Normal _non_ -supernatural life is all good and fine, but too much of it gets boring. Stiles figures that, in this way, it makes a lot of sense to be fooling around with Peter because Peter is potentially dangerous and interesting.

Not that they've been doing much fooling around lately. It's been almost two weeks since their last romp and it hadn't even been a full course romp at that! Not that Stiles is complaining about Peter coming over after he'd suddenly texted (and specifically _hadn't_ mentioned the nightmare). They'd both spanked the monkey, but it had been the consistent eye fucking that had accompanied the masturbation, the come marking, Peter's words... Yeah, _all_ of that had been hot.

But Peter seems to be doing some traveling and being busy in general. Boo, hiss. Stiles usually doesn't ask or attempt to drop in all that often. Stiles isn't desperate. He's not needy and he's definitely not missing Peter.

It's this Friday evening that Stiles makes the executive decision to give Peter one last chance before he takes matters into his own hands and goes out (because there's this itch that seems to be sticking around and sex might help scratch it, so why not try?).

He texts Peter:

 

> **Hey look at me being a good boy and texting first!**
> 
> **You wanna fuck tonight?**

* * *

Peter doesn't stop thinking about what he'd seen. Or, more accurately, he doesn't stop wondering if he'd seen what he'd _thought_ he'd seen, which is a very precise difference.

He'd left almost immediately after Stiles had come, though admittedly that had been a bit of a test to see if he'd be _able_ to leave. Seeing as Stiles had let him go immediately, Peter had downgraded the little blip in Stiles' eyes from an immediate threat into a potential one.

He's had a long two weeks to think about it, and while some days he still wonders if he hadn't just been seeing things, he can still remember the shift in Stiles' scent - in his chemosignal - and Peter can bring it back up in his mind at a moments notice. Pleasure, satisfaction, relief. Nothing particularly _wrong_ given what Stiles had been doing at the time, but it had been darker, more lascivious. He hasn't forgotten Stiles' smile during orgasm. At the time, it had registered as normal. Now, thinking back, it had _fit_ uncomfortably.

Anyone else in the pack likely would have informed the others. Truly, Peter had considered it for a second before dismissing the urge. He doesn't owe any of them anything, save Malia, or Derek perhaps, but he doesn't owe _Scott_ anything. So instead, given that he's forever been just barely clinging on the outskirts of the pack _and_ the fact that he doesn't have concrete proof, he hadn't told anyone. What he _had_ done was drop by a few of the 'meetings' unceremoniously, earning him a few dark looks from certain members, and impassive looks from Derek. Peter hadn't minded; his whole focus had been on Stiles, albeit subtly.

He'd watched him on and off for a good hour on multiple days, until Derek had finally wondered _why_ he kept showing up to _every_ meeting. He'd made a point to miss the next one, but one thing had been certain: no one else had noticed anything off from Stiles, and Stiles hadn't exhibited any further signs.

There's still a lingering feeling in the back of his mind as he lounges back on the couch in his apartment that night, though. Stiles hasn't been a danger to anyone, but Peter's always been cautious by nature. He can't say that Stiles is dangerous, but he _also_ can't say that he _isn't_. And while he's been dodging potential scenarios where they'll find each other for the last few weeks, when his phone vibrates that evening, Peter suspects that his grace period has ended.

Which, really, he wonders if that would really be _so_ bad. Life has been mildly less interesting without Stiles...

Still, Peter checks the messages and makes his decision. It's still a little too soon, a little too hasty. So he improvises.

 

> **Look at you finally listening. Much as I'd love to reward that, I can't. I'm having someone over tonight. You'll have to entertain yourself.**

* * *

There's no good reason that Peter would tell him no. It's been fucking _weeks._ Even an oldass like Peter should want to get it on with him because they have smokin' hot sexual chemistry or whatever. The sex is good. Great, even. Why _wouldn't_ Peter want to get together, especially if Stiles is being all _polite_ and asking beforehand? Manners and all. (Even he can admit that it's practical and smart to do because they are, in fact, hiding this.)

But maybe Peter has been fucking around with someone else? It's a possibility. Stiles' eyebrows draw in, his mouth flatlining. He knows they're not in any sort of real relationship. They're not exclusive. It's never been discussed because it had never been important, but for some reason the very idea kind of infuriates Stiles, especially if Peter has been giving him the run around _for_ someone else. His fingers close around his phone, gripping tight, knuckles white. _How dare Peter? Doesn't Peter know--_

Stiles shakes his head, squashing these stupid jealous thoughts. After all, Stiles had been planning on going out and picking someone up tonight. How would it be any different? It's ridiculous to hold Peter to a different standard.

But then Peter's text comes in and Stiles reads it immediately. He blinks rapidly, disbelieving, before re-reading the last line a few times.

_You'll have to entertain yourself. You'll have to entertain yourself. You'll have to entertain yourself._

It feels like a taunt. Stiles texts back:

> **Oh i will. Pinky promise, cross my heart and hope to die stick a needle in my eye etc. etc.**

It's childish, but whatever. It's also catchy. Stiles throws his phone to the bed and goes to get ready. He fully plans on entertaining himself tonight, thank you very much.

* * *

Much as Peter has grown accustomed to having Stiles at his occasional beck and call, this is what feels like the smartest option. Well, for _him_. There's no real proof that what he'd sensed and seen had been real, but Peter's not been in the habit of hallucinating recently, so caution is likely the safest option. Still, he can't shake a small feeling that taking such a drastic step back might be reckless in and of itself...

No matter. Too late now. So when Stiles' response comes in almost immediately, Peter considers for a moment, and then opens the message.

He sits up, though on his own time, his eyes narrowed slightly as he looks down at the text on his screen. Oh, it _definitely_ sounds like something that Stiles would write, but there's an edge to it that _also_ catches his attention. He's been with Stiles for long enough to catch his sulking, but this is... different. Though there's no real reason to think it, it sounds almost - vaguely - like a threat. But as Peter considers it, he decides that there's no immediate threat to him. Stiles' irritation isn't _his_ problem.

 

> **A little drastic. But if it works for you, by all means. Have fun.**

Peter texts it back without much thought, and he sets his phone down on the coffee table. He's _not_ , in fact, having anyone over. Nor would he. He doesn't particularly enjoy anyone in his space on a regular basis, Stiles not included, and besides, he's still _thinking_. Thinking on how much of a threat this might be or, alternatively, just how sane he really is. Especially since there's been no sign for two whole weeks. It's possible that Peter's just been denying himself regular sex for no _reason_.

He hadn't even been fully able to enjoy his scent on Stiles. That one, he'll admit, he feels a little bitter about.

So lost in thought is he that it takes Peter a good twenty minutes to realize that his phone _hasn't_ buzzed on the table. He blinks, then frowns and reaches over, but - just as he'd suspected - Stiles hasn't responded. Which isn't drastic or uncommon, just... odd. Peter hums to himself, then stands and grabs his laptop, pulling up a few notes he'd been puttering away at over the last few days. Just small refreshers to his memory. Just in case.

* * *

Stiles is focused on picking out the most flattering clothing for this particular outing. No nerdy quippy shirts, for example. No plaid. Just a horizontally striped black and red t-shirt that clings to him right and dark navy chinos. He still goes with sneakers (although not his everyday pair). He messes his hair up a little, but it's not the spikey mess he'd had it a few years ago.

Stiles gives himself double finger guns in the mirror before returning to grab his cell and hop into the Jeep. He drives to a club that usually has a good mix of music and potential partners (which is equally important because if you can't find someone, you should at least be able to listen to good music while striking out).

When he arrives at the club, he reads Peter's text and simply rolls his eyes. Stiles then takes half a minute to wonder just who Peter would let into his apartment. Would it be some young twink thing (like him)? Some curvy vixen (not like him)? A man that looked more manly (once again, not like him)? Stiles hasn't ever heard Peter mention a friend. Peter doesn't really _do_ friends. Peter would probably use the word _associates_ or _acquaintances_ or something pretentious like that.

"Maybe a prostitute?" Stiles snorts to himself as he pockets his phone. Nothing wrong with sex work, it would be more neat and tidy. Pay 'em, do it, then they're gone. He then wonders what Peter would do if _he_ asked to be paid. Peter can afford it, after all. How offended would Peter be? It's an amusing thought. With a shrug Stiles drops that topic and makes his way inside. He's got an itch to scratch and he isn't leaving until he finds someone to help him out.

It's about an hour later, slightly sweaty and loose, Stiles sends a selfie to Peter. In this selfie, he's in the bathroom (yeah, gross, whatever), but he has his head tilted to the side, collar pulled down and he's showing off a hickey. In the picture he's smiling a coy little smile.

* * *

Peter's notes aren't comprehensive, because there's a large part of him still convinced that he hadn't _seen_ anything. Still, it never hurts to be prepared, and considering that he likes to keep himself informed, working on his _own_ little bestiary won't hurt anyone.

The Hale pack had had centuries worth of information at one point, all lost in the fire. All lost save Peter's old laptop, which had died a little over a year ago, but he'd been smart enough to back up his data in multiple places, and the cloud is a _wonderful_ invention for keeping information safe. Couple that with the way he'd swiped a copy of the Argent bestiary from Scott earlier that year in order to add to his own resources, and he's probably got more than most members of the pack. The Argent bestiary is comprehensive, and the Hale information fills in a few of the cracks, but Peter's been adding his _own_ little flair every now and then.

Case and point: the nogitsune. While the children had been obsessed with finding answers and _saving Stiles_ , Peter had been busy keeping notes for his own agenda. After all, there's no better way to survive a potential disaster than to know everything about the enemy. Granted, it's been years since he'd last looked _at_ his notes, but as the minutes tick by and he scans the documents, he's impressed with how thorough he'd been. Maybe the notes aren't as thorough as centuries of hunters compiling information into a bestiary, but he has enough to work with.

He lingers for a few minutes on _reading difficulties_ and _blackouts_ , and he muses on both idly. He's not seen Stiles black out, but he's also not seen him doing much of anything lately. Peter lingers on a few ideas, unable to help but wonder in the back of his mind just what Stiles is doing to entertain himself, but it doesn't really matter.

At least... it doesn't until his phone finally vibrates. Peter saves what he'd been working on and reaches out, only half-paying attention. But then he catches sight of a picture and he refocuses enough to see Stiles in what looks like a bathroom with horrid lighting, his hair done, his clothing a little rumpled, and a blatant hickey all but stamped on his throat. Peter stares for a moment, his eyes narrowing, because there's something about the mark on Stiles' throat that seems very... inciting.

Taunting. _Blatant_.

 

> **Well, you certainly look like you've had a good time. Guess you don't need to stick that needle in your eye after all.**

Peter's not entirely _aware_ of the message until he's sent it, and then he allows himself a small flicker of irritation. Really, two weeks is all it takes, and then Stiles can't help himself? For a recent virgin, he's making the rounds.

 

> **At least tell me you went somewhere respectable. That bathroom doesn't look up to code.**

* * *

It's a childish, petty thing to do, but hey, Peter _had_ told him to have fun and Stiles _is_ having fun. He's simply doing a bit extra by reporting and flaunting his fun. Nothing wrong with communicating it to Peter. If Peter is actually busy with someone else, Peter won't check his phone. Maybe this is a little test, too. Then again, if it's a prostitute, Peter likely doesn't care if he's being rude. Actually, Peter wouldn't care at all even if it was an _associate_ that he was having sex with. If Peter wanted to check his phone, he damn well would.

Phone still in hand, Stiles checks out the hickey, craning his head to the side this way and that way. It had taken some goading to assure the girl that he didn't in fact mind the bruise, but after his insistent whispers and a few playful kisses, she'd been game. She hadn't wanted to go much further, but Stiles had made sure she left giggly and happy. Sometimes it's nice to sample.

Peter's first text comes in and Stiles can't help but grin at the reference to his rhyme. He also notes that Peter had read and responded rather quickly. He wonders if Peter is actually with someone, but if Peter isn't, why would Peter lie to him? Stiles doesn't like it. Has Peter been blowing him off? His jaw clenches before he exhales slowly to calm himself down. It doesn't matter.

But he does like the next text because Peter is obviously interested.

 

> **Why would you care? You're busy right? Too busy to come and get me and leave your own marks**

* * *

The hickey stands out in horrible contrast on Stiles' throat, looking like a deep, obvious bruise from a smaller mouth. Likely female, or shy. Definitely fresh, and definitely something that Stiles had almost immediately taken a picture of. Peter can't see any glisten of saliva, so it's likely been a few minutes, but still, Stiles had sent him a photo to be deliberate and obvious. Peter _knows_ what he's doing, at least in part. It's likely Stiles trying to taunt him after having been blown off, but Peter's not _twelve_ and Stiles can see whoever he likes. It's nothing special.

Except whoever placed the hickey there has a _horrible_ sense of spacial awareness and anatomy. It's almost repulsive, going for an area so low on the throat, so small, and so away from anything of vital importance that it might as well just be a splotch of lipstick left behind. Honestly, if Stiles was going to try and score, he could have at least found someone with more intelligence. Stiles has never struck Peter as the type to go for idiots.

He knows, in the back of his mind, that this is blatant for a reason, and he also knows that ignoring this is likely the best course of action. Stiles isn't really being subtle with it, but Peter has to reluctantly admit that this is smart. His instincts aren't that pleased that his previous claim has been overlain, and he's never made obvious, visible marks on Stiles before. Not where anyone could see them. Ergo their _thing_ being a _secret_.

Peter grimaces at the photo for a while longer, fingers drumming idly against his thigh. He's not sure why this bothers him as much as it does; he's at least self-aware enough to acknowledge it, even if it is ridiculous. But Stiles keeps dangling himself like a particularly enticing morsel, and Peter's not sure how much he cares.

The text is just the nail in the coffin. Glaring lightly, Peter considers his laptop, eyes it, and then sets it fully aside after closing all of the documents. Then he stands and grabs his jacket from the peg by the door.

 

> **You know, petty and desperate is a good look on you. By rights, I should turn off my phone and leave you there.**

Peter pulls on his shoes, grabs the keys to his motorcycle, and leaves the apartment. Some risks are worth taking.

 

> **But I'm feeling charitable. You could tell me where you are, or I could just track you from your house. Your choice.**
> 
> **Depends on how long you're willing to wait.**

* * *

It's a nagging thought, like a loose string that Stiles is tempted to yank on. _What if Peter is blowing him off?_ Yes, that would be annoying, but what's more pressing is that there would be some reason behind it and Stiles doesn't know the reason. Had he done something? Sure he'd kinda manipulated Peter into coming over to his place last time to distract him, but it's not like Peter hadn't had a good time. It'd been fun for both of them. Stiles knows it.

And as seemingly annoyed as Peter had been about Stiles wiping his own come on Peter's stomach, that can't be the real reason. Peter hadn't put up a _huge_ hissy fit. Peter had left, sure, but they'd both had their orgasms. There was no reason for Peter to stay. It's nothing they haven't done before, really.

The reason... Peter would need one - Peter would have one. Peter hasn't admitted to anything, this is all speculation, but Stiles' intuition is telling him that something is up. Something's changed. Something's slightly different between them now. For months they've been doing this and this is the longest time that they haven't gotten together. Half a fucking month and no real explanation.

Peter's text calms some of Stiles' irrational agitation because he likes having Peter's attention and focus. Stiles looks at the words - petty and desperate - and he lets them swirl in his mind like cream being poured into coffee. The words look nice. Maybe they don't have a good connotation, but Stiles doesn't care. It's Peter's _next_ text that has Stiles' lips curling into a grin. Peter doesn't have company or Peter is kicking them out. Peter's so-called charitable mood has Peter willing to come to him or track him down.

Stiles' tongue slides out and he slowly wets his bottom lip.

 

> **Come and find me if you can...**

In the meantime, Stiles plans on getting another hickey. Why not?

* * *

_Come and find me if you can_.

The words linger in Peter's mind like a song he can't quite get out of his head as he climbs onto his motorcycle and gets to work. Really, it's not overly difficult to track people in Beacon Hills given the size of the place, especially not if you know where to look. Peter might not have any particular direction to start in, but he _can_ connect the dots he's been given, and the first order of business is to start at Stiles' house. A part of him wants to be irritated that Stiles hadn't just _told_ Peter where to find him, but even Peter needs to admit that this way is much more interesting.

He drives to Stiles' house but doesn't park in the driveway. Much as he could jump into Stiles' bedroom and check the search history on his computer, he can scent Stiles just fine from the driveway. Peter's always been good at picking up the subtle nuances of scent and its shifting signals, and now is no different. So, dropping the visor on his helmet, Peter revs the engine of the bike once and turns back out into traffic, following the very unique traces of Stiles' scent.

It helps that there can only be a handful of places for Stiles to be this late, especially with such an abysmal bathroom. Restaurants would have higher standards, and fast food joints are always distinctive by the tile patterns. And given the lack of bustling night life in Beacon Hills, the few clubs that are open tend to attract all the attention. So when Stiles' scent grows faint at a stop light and Peter wonders where he might be, all he needs is to think about the closest club and get to looking.

Where else would Stiles go after putting effort in to his outfit? Where would he find someone desperate enough to give him a hickey, for that matter? There aren't many options.

It's almost an insult when Peter arrives at _Enigma_ \- a newly-opened nightclub in Beacon Hills. Peter's there for a few seconds before he sees Stiles' powder-blue monstrosity parked outside, and really, Stiles could have at least made this a _challenge_.

The club smells like sweat, sex, alcohol, and smoke. Peter's nose wrinkles as he steps inside, bypassing a startled-looking young woman at the door who offers him a stamp upon entry, only to have Peter brush past her. He's not in the mood to be chatty right now, and with the pounding music and the varying, dizzying scents, this isn't exactly his preferred venue. But Peter's not one to back down from a challenge and so he begins to look, slinking his way through the throngs on the dance floor and keeping an eye out for Stiles.

His search only takes about five minutes. Stiles isn't doing the smart thing and hiding in the middle of the dance floor, but he _has_ found himself a booth in the back. Peter's already walking back there when he sees movement beside Stiles and he goes still, enough for someone to bump into him and give him an irritated shove. Peter returns it absently, mindless of the way the man crashes down to the floor on impact, and watches as Stiles' head tips back. Peter _especially_ watches as the man at Stiles' throat seems to redouble his efforts, and Peter makes his decision swiftly.

He stalks over to Stiles' table and reaches out. Without pausing to greet him, Peter grabs Stiles' arm and roughly yanks him out of the booth. Stiles' date - a hapless-looking young man with wide eyes- lets out an affronted yell, and he's halfway through cussing Peter out when Peter's fist finds the side of his head and he slumps to the table. It's not like he'd hit him _hard_ or anything, but really. How stupid can some people be?

Peter doesn't bother to say anything as he grips Stiles' arm tightly and drags him from the booth. He doesn't say anything until he's manhandled Stiles outside, much to the look of alarm from the stamp-woman at the door, but she looks away when Peter drags Stiles in closer, as if feigning intimacy.

"I believe this constitutes finding you," Peter says sharply. "Was there any purpose to this, or were you just bored and brainless?"

* * *

Oh, Stiles easily could have told Peter where he's at. He could have texted the one-word location to Peter, but where's the fun in that? Besides, if Peter had been blowing him off, if Peter had been lying about having someone over tonight, shouldn't Peter be made to do some work? This is Stiles' rationale anyway. He knows Peter wouldn't have mentioned tracking him if Peter wasn't actually okay with going through with it.

Besides, this is more fun. Petter being given the answer immediately isn't. It's simple.

Stiles spares a glance at the time, but he doesn't pull out his phone again. Either Peter will find him or won't. Beacon Hills isn't LA. There aren't too many clubs here either. Peter can handle this - and if Peter can't, maybe Peter should sign up for a werewolf 101 refresher course.

The strobe lights cycle between colors and the music - a mix of upbeat dance and tribal - sets the mood just right. Stiles dances, carefree if he's making an idiot of himself. He's learned that he doesn't actually _need_ to be good at dancing. Confidence here counts for a lot. If Stiles looks like he's having a good time, if he's smiling, Stiles is then approachable and fun instead of weird and wacky.

He finds another willing sampler, an older guy, but younger than Peter. Stiles dances with him for one song, purposely grinding against the more than willing body. Stiles isn't concerned about trying to hide from Peter. He's not trying to be clever either. He moves them to a booth in the back and Stiles encourages the guy to leave a hopefully more impressive hickey this time. What's better than one hickey? Two or three, of course.

Stiles isn't really on the lookout for Peter, so that means when he's suddenly jerked away Stiles doesn't even give a yelp. He's not scared. He feels triumphant, as if he's found where X marked the treasure. His smile does falter when Peter punches the guy out (because hey, Todd or Taylor didn't deserve that), but before Stiles can berate Peter on his rather public act of aggression, he's dragged unceremoniously out of the building, to the side, and pushed against the wall.

_'Was there any purpose to this, or were you just bored and brainless?'_

"Purpose?" Stiles echoes back. "Well it got you out and with me," he points out. "I bet you didn't even have anyone over. What's up with that? You trying to play hard to get?"

* * *

Stiles' back hits the wall a little harder than strictly necessary, but Peter feels justified after being made to track him down. Yes, he had told Stiles to entertain himself, but for Stiles, 'entertainment' usually constitutes random YouTube videos that Peter talks over purposefully, or video games that Peter quickly loses interest in.

Stiles isn't the type to drag himself off to a club on a whim, and were Peter thinking a _little_ more rationally, he might have connected a few dots here and there, but in that one second, he's not. He's irritated at Stiles' blatant taunting, and the hickeys on Stiles' throat are obvious and - in the case of the recent one - still wet. So yes, Peter shoves Stiles back against the wall, and Stiles lets him.

Clearly this had been Stiles' goal. Peter's only half-angry over it. The other half of him (minus a small part that is still exceedingly wary) is impressed. This is something that Peter would have done.

Stiles looks like the cat that lured the bird over to the cream for a double-feature. Peter's lips thin as he stares him down, from the tighter clothing that reeks of strange sweat and smoke, to the mess that Stiles' hair is currently in from fingers that don't belong to Peter. One final breath is all it takes to prove that Stiles isn't carrying any of his scent anymore, and that rankles for reasons unknown.

Thankfully Stiles is feeling somewhat chatty, and Peter quickly refocuses. His jaw is tight with irritation, his eyes still narrowed, but he listens to Stiles when he speaks. It _has_ been two weeks, and that is pushing it a bit far, but Peter's had his reasons. Reasons that he isn't about to tell Stiles. So he doesn't, and he draws his hands back from Stiles' shoulders with a small, dismissive sniff, but Peter doesn't take a step back. He cages Stiles in against the wall with presence alone.

"It's not your business whether or not I invite anyone over to _my_ apartment," Peter drawls back. "I told you. I've been busy lately. Surely you're not desperate enough for a fuck that you'd throw yourself at any disease-ridden human who looks at you for more than three seconds. _These_ ," he indicates Stiles' hickeys with a grimace, "are just tacky."

* * *

Entertainment. Yeah, Stiles could have stayed home and pulled up Netflix or YouTube. He could have putzed around on a video game or two, but there's just this damnable itch, this dissatisfaction that's been growing within him. Stiles is used to getting together with Peter a few times per week. He's used to getting off pretty regularly. He's used to Peter's sometimes annoying, sometimes funny sass. He's used to being able to ask supernatural-related questions whenever he wants.

Stiles may have some boner for the supernatural, but that doesn't mean that there's anything wrong with plain 'ole humans either. Stiles has slept with a few here and there, none since he began fucking around with Peter, however as there's been no need. But if Peter had decided to remain being an ass, Stiles would have hooked up with one (or at least put in a good effort).

Peter is being unnecessarily rough with him but Stiles doesn't mind it. If anything, he enjoys the show of spirit from Peter. The fact that he'd gotten Peter to play _Where's Waldo_ with him and show up here? It's riveting fun, okay. So, Stiles _does_ look pleased when Peter regards him. Peter, of course, looks miffed, but Peter and miffed is nothing new. Peter's hands leave his shoulders, but Stiles knows he's not free to go. Peter's still blocking him with his body. Stiles relaxes against the wall, clearly in no hurry to leave anyway.

For whatever reason Peter doesn't actually answer Stiles' question - which is an answer itself. Peter _hadn't_ had anyone over which meant Peter had been going for a convenient lie. Before Stiles can comment on it, Peter is going on and being a chatty motherfucker _and_ apparently trying to shame him for trying to get laid. Lame. Stiles _could_ tell Peter to stop slut shaming him, but the mention of his apparent tacky hickeys draws his attention.

"Oh, are they?" Stiles asks, eyebrows lifting. "Want to give me something more Peter-approved then?" Stiles' hand reaches out and his fingers curl into Peter's collar. He doesn't yank, he just holds. Stiles does tilt his head to the side, baring the side of his throat that's unmarked. "Leave a nice mark so I'll have to come up with a lie to tell Scott and the others?"

Because they both know that the truth sure isn't happening.

* * *

The hickeys _are_ tacky. Sloppy, haphazardly placed, too small in one case, and too faint in the other. For a mouth that big, the man that Peter had punched out hadn't had much drive behind his attention. Pitiful, really. To go to all the trouble of going out to a club only to half-ass his intent on Stiles' neck. Stiles could have found _anyone_ else - anyone with taste, at least - for much more satisfying results.

Peter ignores the small niggling voice in the back of his mind that reminds him that Stiles _had_ made that attempt. It's an insult, Stiles being content to go home with someone despite Peter's lack of availability. Settling for something after experiencing the best is just trashy, but as Peter stares Stiles down and watches Stiles' shoulders relax, he does spare a small thought to the black irises he's sure he'd seen a few weeks ago.

Perhaps this had been deliberate? Peter breathes in cautiously, but the only scent rolling off of Stiles in waves is _wrong_. Wrong scent, wrong sweat, and a mixture of smoke and hormones and alcohol. Nothing familiar.

A small growl rumbles in Peter's throat, because he doesn't like being made to go so far out of his way on a whim, but he does also need to admit that Stiles' teasing had at least made it interesting. He might not have come without a real challenge, and this had been one.

Peter's thoughts of leaving Stiles right where he is out of spite die, however, when Stiles looks at him with amusement glinting in his normal, non-black eyes and he tilts his throat, baring pale, unmarked flesh for Peter's perusal. And really, it's a risk. It's _dangerous_ to mark Stiles up blatantly, but there's something edged in Stiles' voice, something coaxing and mischievous that curls a note of interest into Peter's eyes. Oh, he still wants to slam Stiles back against the pavement and leave him there, but it _has_ been two weeks, and the hickeys on Stiles' throat are offensive.

"Listen to yourself," Peter says, leaning in close. His hands move slowly, pressing against the brick of the wall on either side of Stiles' arms. He's close enough that his lips brush the shell of Stiles' ear. "I wonder what's gotten into you. Or have you just been spending too much time around me?" Peter smirks. "I _am_ a bad influence..."

And with that, one hand moves to curl into Stiles' hair. Yet instead of leaning in and pressing his lips to the pale, smooth skin of Stiles' throat, Peter yanks Stiles' head to the _other_ side and reaches up with his free hand. He gives Stiles' throat a cursory wipe with the sleeve of his jacket and then Peter moves in before Stiles can say anything. His teeth find the faded, _weak_ hickey that the idiot in the club had left and Peter bites down, sucking hard with a blatant growl. Under his teeth, the mark blossoms into a bright, vibrant red. One that not even concealer has a hope of covering.

* * *

Peter has left a few suck marks here and there, scratches that have left raised welts on Stiles' skin, human teeth idents. Nothing permanent, nothing disfiguring and nothing that could be easily discovered by curious family or friends. But Stiles is inviting that to change right now. If Peter gives him a hickey - an apparently worthwhile one - it's going to be obvious and blatant. People will likely ask him about it too, or at least tease him, but Stiles is prepared to deal with it.

Stiles doesn't understand why Peter's so upset about these particular hickeys or him trying to get jiggy with it and get laid. Obviously, Peter hasn't been missing their bang sessions because Peter hadn't made any effort to try and be available for him. Maybe Peter just doesn't like sharing his toys. And Stiles can get behind that. Stiles doesn't particularly want to share Peter either, but they're not exclusive. It's not like they've written their names on each other like kids sometimes do with favorite toys.

Stiles doesn't doubt that Peter's pissed about this little gamble of Stiles', but if Peter had just allowed him to come over, they could have avoided all of this - so Peter's at fault. Peter leans in closer and Stiles' eyelids flutter in anticipation because isn't a build-up and the culmination of said build-up just delicious? Peter's breath tickles Stiles' ear and if Stiles is so easily talking about sharing a lie with his friends, Peter _must_ be rubbing off on him. It's the only logical explanation.

But then a familiar hand is back in his hair and Stiles feels a satisfying rush flow through him. Surprisingly, Peter suddenly yanks his head to the _other_ side. Apparently, Peter wants to re-work the existing hickeys on his throat. Suits him just fine. Stiles doesn't complain or fight against it. If anything he keens into the touch and then pain blossoms as Peter bites him with blunt, human teeth over already-abused skin. Stiles' closes his eyes, basking in Peter's growl and gasping.

"There ya go, chomper," Stiles says breathlessly.

* * *

It's more reckless than it's likely safe to say, doing this to Stiles. _With_ Stiles. It's been too long, though, and after this little act of impulsiveness, Peter isn't sure he cares about the consequences of what his actions might lead to. It's not possible to lie to a wolf. At least not to an untrained one. _Peter_ can lie, but only because he works the lies back into truths, but even then, he's got to be careful. Stiles suggesting that he'll be able to lie to his friends about the origin of any additional marks should be cause for dismissal. Peter _should_ have left him.

But he hadn't. He doesn't. And he's not at all gentle when he bites. Maybe he doesn't break the skin, but he does avoid the sensitive arteries under Stiles' skin, as bruising them with a bite this intense would not do good things to his system.

It feels like aggression, like violence, like the smallest blip of possession, and Peter gives in to it as the first mark forms on Stiles' skin, helpless to resist. Peter spares it one look when he draws back the first time, Stiles' lingering gasp ringing in his ears, and then he leans up higher, to the smaller hickey from the picture.

Peter doesn't bite this one, not nearly as hard anyway, but he does work it with his lips, teeth, and tongue. He steps closer, pressing his torso against Stiles', pinning him to the brick wall, and Peter lets the distant thrum of the music from inside drift into a white noise in the distance. It eventually mixes with Stiles' breathing and his heartbeat, and Peter basks in it despite the twist of anger still in his chest.

He doesn't draw back, doesn't even _think_ about stopping, until both marks on Stiles' throat are red, raw, and blatant. Not too small like the first, and not too weak like the second. They're just right, and as Peter leans back to look down at them, his eyes glint a quick satisfied blue. Not even a turtleneck could cover the top one.

"Is that what you wanted? For someone to do it _right?_ To look into every mirror you pass and remember? For everyone to question but never know who did this to you?" Peter's voice is low, the barest hints of a growl. He looks down into Stiles' eyes, reminiscent of a few days ago.

"You're getting reckless."

* * *

Pain and heat radiating at his neck, it's difficult to remember what Stiles' precise intention had been. He remembers being suspicious of Peter's so-called visiting guest (and his subsequent rejection). Stiles is pretty certain that it had all been a lie. He won't claim to be hurt over the fact, however. They're not lovers. There's no romance and candles and sonnets. Well, maybe not sonnets. Kinda outdated, right? Peter is like the quintessential bad boy in town, but instead of simply being some tough guy who rides a motorbike and wears a leather jacket, Peter is a sassy and dangerous supernatural creature that doesn't like to stay dead and puts himself first no matter what.

Instinct should dictate that Stiles doesn't get involved with such a guy, but Stiles thinks Peter actually does appeal to his instincts. It's his _head_ that worries about him playing with fire like this. It's his head that's like, ' _hey dude, really?_ ' and yet Stiles has gone with his instincts time and time again when it comes to Peter. Stiles is a repeat offender here. Sometimes Peter feels like a car crash or explosion you hear about on the news (or see _after_ the fact because you happened to create the bomb) - you should look away, but you don't.

Stiles knows he should stop, but he doesn't.

Stiles' pulse has climbed from the somewhat perverse thrill and pain. His eyes are still closed when Peter pulls away and Stiles can feel Peter looking at his neck, appraising his work like some fucking hoity-toity professional. Stiles grins. It's good to take pride in one's work after all. He likes that Peter is seeking corrective action here, too. Stiles imagines his skin like a canvas for Peter to paint on, and in some parts - like his neck tonight - paint _over_.

Another bites comes but the pain is lesser this time and when Peter's warm body presses closer, effectively pushing him against the brick, Stiles lets himself audibly breath louder.

Peter works at his craft - teeth, tongue and lips coaxing the bruising to grow. Stiles' eyes open as Peter pulls away. Killer-blue eyes meet his own, but only for a moment. Stiles lets Peter get the first word in. _See_ , he can share.

While Peter natters, Stiles just levels him with a satisfied look. "Wouldn't be reckless - wouldn't get _bored_ \- if you just played with me," Stiles answers simply. He then gets curious. "I know you like it, so why have you been avoiding me?"

* * *

Stiles isn't the only one getting reckless, but at least Peter is covered. By the side of a building, granted, and by his own senses, but that doesn't change the fact that he shouldn't be here, doing this in public. He knows better, but Stiles - clever, impudent Stiles - had appealed so perfectly to his instincts that Peter wonders in the back of his mind whether or not he should be concerned. He's not one to _be_ manipulated. He _does_ the manipulating. But no matter how he sugar coats the last few seconds in his mind, Peter knows that he'd let Stiles coax him into this. He'd let Stiles entice him, and he should be angry - he is - but he's not angry _enough._

Peter isn't leaving, after all. He considers it. Stiles had gotten him here, but Peter's under no obligation to give him anything _else_ that he might want. Stiles hardly deserves it...

But the way that Stiles is looking at him, the quick pulse, the blown, _normal_ pupils, and the scent of sweat, sex, smoke, alcohol, and _Peter_ makes him second-guess himself. Under the rest of the scents, the beginnings of arousal is there, but Peter doesn't smell anything that immediately gets him up in arms. The man he has pinned to the wall right now is Stiles, and just Stiles. For all that he knows, it's always been 'just Stiles' and he's been cautious and denying himself for absolutely no reason.

It's a sentiment that Stiles seems to agree with. He insists that if Peter had just given in, this wouldn't have happened. He wouldn't have been reckless, and Peter can't exactly deny that. But then Stiles continues, curious, needling, and Peter makes himself draw a deeper breath that isn't filled with the desire to latch his fangs into Stiles' throat for good measure. He doesn't own Stiles. He doesn't _want_ to own Stiles. God, dealing with him on a regular basis would be Hell.

"I haven't been avoiding you," Peter says simply, a vaguely calculating flicker behind his eyes as he looks down at Stiles. He hasn't yet moved his hands away from the wall. "You invited me over under false pretenses. And, might I add, _just_ orchestrated a scenario in which I would feel compelled to come and _play_ with you. Either of those reasons would be good enough to cut contact." But he's not going to. Even Peter knows that it's written in his eyes. Yet how much to tell...

He decides on a half-truth. "You were in an odd headspace when I left last time. I didn't particularly want to find out what might happen if it got any worse. Trauma has its ups and downs; I didn't want to risk being the cause of one of those downs. For my own sake."

* * *

He wants to know. He wants to know what happened. Stiles could let it slide. He could gloat about getting Peter out here (and thereby winning). He could invite Peter back to his place or ask to come over and move things along. But Stiles had already tried to arrange a hookup and Peter had lied to him. No, there's going to be no sliding or gloating _or_ invitations to go further. Not until he knows what changed. Stiles' hands are already dirty. He's been digging in the sandbox, there's stuff already under his nails (at least what little he doesn't bite off). There's no point in stopping. Stiles might as well keep on digging.

Because he wants to unearth the answer. He wants to understand. This is abnormal behavior for Peter - at least when comparing it to the last few months. Normal people would likely talk in a private place. His Jeep is nearby but he's pretty sure Peter wouldn't willingly relocate there. Normal people moving somewhere else to talk also makes this issue seem important and serious. Lying seems like it ought to be big and serious, but it's Peter Hale. Stiles can't say that he expected much different.

Peter claims that he _hasn't_ been avoiding Stiles. Lie. Fucking lie. But Stiles waits and listens.

Peter mentions their last time together, when Stiles had told Peter to come over but _not_ told him the entire situation with him being panicked from a nightmare. Truth.

Peter adds on his orchestration _tonight_ being another good reason to cut contact. Truth.

Stiles knows that Peter isn't going to do that, however. Peter isn't a sensitive flower. Peter may be a self-serving sack of shit, but he's not some justice warrior over emotional ambiguity. Besides, all Stiles really did was "orchestrate" things that benefited him which Peter does _all_ the time. It's Peter's mention of a so-called odd headpsace and trauma that have Stiles' eyes narrowing in thought. The skin on his neck aches from Peter's assault, but it helps keep Stiles focused.

"Under the guise of self-preservation you decided to be a bitch," Stiles murmurs after licking his lips. "My trauma _scare_ you, Peter? I'm pretty sure that _you_ could give me a run for my money."

* * *

The best lies are based in truth and this is no different. Peter can see the calculating look in Stiles' eyes and were it any other reason, he'd have already taken his leave. He doesn't _owe_ Stiles an answer. He doesn't owe _anyone_ an answer. But Stiles is just stubborn enough to never take no for an answer, and so Peter knows that the smart idea is to give him one. Whether or not Stiles believes it is another matter entirely. Were it anyone else, Peter wouldn't wonder, but Stiles has always been quite observant. Peter doesn't dare believe that Stiles is too slow to connect the dots here.

Because he's not. Because Stiles has an odd knack for connecting the dots, and as Peter looks down at him and watches Stiles' thoughts race with the information he'd been given, Peter can see Stiles in the act _of_ connecting those dots. So when Stiles speaks, Peter's only half-surprised that he's so bold with his accusations. Honestly, he shouldn't be. He's not in the habit of underestimating Stiles.

Still, his eyes do narrow at the mention of his _own_ trauma. This isn't necessarily a topic that they speak of. Certainly not Peter's trauma. It feels a little like Stiles is taking risks he shouldn't be, and Peter considers the best course of action even as anger spikes in his chest. He looks at Stiles and imagines him on his knees, and the mental image is enough to keep him from growling.

"Under the guise of self-preservation, I decided to _remain living_. Your trauma doesn't scare me," he adds on a scoff, "but had you had a bad reaction, or had you had some sort of psychotic break and the rest of the pack got involved, who do _you_ think would have their head on the chopping block? You? Or me."

* * *

_Trauma_. It feels like a shameful, dirty word, something that's meant to be hidden away in a drawer or kept in the dark. Stiles is smart enough to know that yes, of course, he has some residual trauma from what he went through. From making birthday present bombs to sabotaging the hospital and sewing strife like a master seamstress. Stiles doesn't try and think about that shit, about the chaotic fun of playing tircks and being three steps ahead of everyone else. But there had also been the buzzing of power, of strength...

Is calling Peter a _bitch_ smart? Probably not, but Peter had just admitted to staying away from him because he'd been bothered by his trauma or something connected to that. Maybe Peter thought he'd erupt his trauma all over the place like projectile vomit. Stiles doesn't exactly know. But Stiles also knows that Peter has his own fair share of anguish.

No one talks about it. No one asks. Stiles had almost asked once and Peter hadn't been very amenable to the idea of sharing (Peter had actually snarled and thrown him to the bed and that had been the end of that).

But Stiles is pissed that Peter had lied to him and Stiles had been denied. So he pushes back with his words. Stiles can't fight Peter. He can't get rough (well he can _try,_ but he won't get far). This is all he has.

Should Stiles be worried that Peter had thought _something_ was serious enough to attempt to stay away? Apparently not because it becomes clear that, once again, Peter had simply been looking after his neck because he thought he'd get into trouble if Stiles lost his marbles. Peter is right of course. His friends wouldn't drop it or trust Peter.

"A psychotic break? That sounds like _your_ area of expertise," Stiles comments cheekily. "So you're high tailing it out if I get _cwazy_?" Stiles' fingers reach out and curl onto Peter's belt buckles, yanking as he purposely grinds forward.

"Scaredycat."

* * *

Peter isn't a coward. He is selectively leery about anything that _might_ wind up with him beheaded or burned alive again. Considering how many times that seems to happen to him, he thinks it's safe to be wary around an unknown threat. He'd hardly classify Stiles as a threat, but he'd dealt with Stiles' little episode of darkness back when it had happened. Granted, he'd had other things on his mind at the time, but he still knows better than to willingly play with fire of _that_ sort. Normal fire could burn him alive, but this fire somehow seems far more potent.

But Stiles isn't exhibiting any signs that Peter should be aware of. He's not sneering and cajoling. His eyes aren't dark and dangerous, and he doesn't feel old beyond his years. He looks - in Peter's professional opinion - like a horny, jaded teenager looking to fuck or lash out, whatever makes him feel better. And as much as Peter wants to keep breathing, it's hard to remind himself that he's not _quite_ sure that Stiles is safe when Stiles reaches for his belt loops and grinds ahead. Peter's not going to pretend that he isn't half-hard in his _very_ form-fitting jeans, but it's the principle of the matter. He narrows his eyes.

"You know," he drawls flatly, "sometimes I wonder if you even listen to yourself, or if you just _enjoy_ it when I throw you around. Because I must admit, if I wasn't sure that Scott would have my head, you'd have been in that dumpster over there a minute ago."

Peter glances over at the dumpster in question - at the faintest view of the edge of it. It's hard to see from this distance, but he's fairly sure that he could have thrown Stiles against it. He's already turning away when he pauses, blinks, and then looks back at it. Well. It _has_ been two weeks, and thus far, he's not been gored by Oni.

"On second thought..." Peter draws away and grabs Stiles by the back of his shirt. He drags Stiles unceremoniously after him, leading the way around the corner of the building to the lee of the dumpster, where it's perfectly dark, somewhat rank, and _very_ isolated. Peter shoves Stiles' back against the rough brick of the wall and then, without so much as a word, he kicks at the back of one of Stiles' knees just enough to get it to buckle and then Peter forces him to his knees on the filthy pavement.

He looks down at Stiles, eyes narrowed thoughtfully. "Now... I _could_ throw you in that dumpster and leave you. You'd deserve it. _Or_ you could make this trip worth my while. Your choice... You up to the challenge?"

* * *

Peter is rubbing off on him. That's really the only logical explanation for this apparent increase in snarky behavior. Now, Stiles has always been a sarcastic shit disturber, but it's usually not to this degree. This is a more on the risky side because he knows Peter will have little to no reservations in actually hurting him because Stiles would need to then actually admit to hanging out in Peter's vicinity and then explain why Peter had suddenly lashed out. That doesn't seem fun. Stiles would rather not have to do that.

Maybe this is like tiptoeing around a sleeping beast. Stiles doesn't actually _want_ to get seriously injured... It's just that antagonizing Peter can be fun. Peter is here and available and Stiles is still horny, he's still got an itch to scratch (Peter's fault), so he doesn't try and behave. Besides, Stiles can feel that Peter isn't soft. Peter isn't sporting a raging hardon, but there _is_ something there.

The dumpster-threat has Stiles smiling, pleased as punch because he'd rather be amused than overthink how he _hasn't_ been thinking about his behavior and words (and maybe that he should be?).

Without much warning Peter is suddenly moving and Stiles is more or less being dragged because Peter is pulling on the back of his t-shirt and Stiles doesn't want it to be ripped. His sneakers skid on the gravel of the back alley as he scrambles after Peter, determined to not trip and fall. He's unceremoniously shoved back against the wall and Stiles is definitely intrigued by where this is going. Given the semi-public location and lack of supplies, there's only so much that they can realistically do. What does Peter have in mind, hmm?

Before Stiles can even ask, the dick is kicking at one of his legs and pushing him down. With a grunt, Stiles is forced to get to his knees in the alley and beside the dumpster. Besides the yuck factor, it's kind of hot because it's kind of public still and apparently Stiles kind of has a kink for it.

Stiles knows where this is going before Peter even hints at making this _worth while._

Stiles almost singsongs, ' _because you're worth it'_ from those L'Oreal commercials, but he doesn't think that would go over well. Instead, he _shows_ his choice by helping himself to Peter's fly and dragging the zipper down. Normally jittery fingers find their stride here and work out the button. Stiles yanks on Peter's belt loops again to get him coming closer.

"Challenge accepted," he murmurs, eyes looking up as he pulls Peter's half-hard cock out. Stiles blatantly - and slowly - wets both lips before he leans in and places a teasing kiss on Peter's cockhead.

* * *

Well, nothing has attempted to rip him apart or stab him through the stomach for daring to manhandle Stiles, so Peter is going to categorize this as a hesitant victory. Really, he hadn't known _what_ he'd seen that night, but he's never been one to be reckless when it risks his own life. Other lives, yes, most definitely, but not his own. But looking down at Stiles now, at the flush to his skin and the vibrant red marks on his throat that the pack will see the next time that Stiles goes near them, Peter can't bring himself to care. He's not dead, he's not dying, and Stiles isn't putting up a fuss about being on his knees on dirty, cold pavement.

It is thrillingly depraved, and not something that Peter would say that he's normally into. Yet somehow, after the lengths that Stiles had gone to that evening, Peter can't think of a single reason why he shouldn't do this. Minus the possible threat, but if Stiles hasn't attempted to kill him for _this_ , Peter doubts that he will.

So he watches, eyes dark, as Stiles immediately reaches out and undoes Peter's fly. He's quick and eager in a way that sends heat racing under Peter's skin, because Stiles only acts like this when he's desperate, when he's _hungry_ for it, and Peter can admit that he's definitely missed this. How voracious Stiles can be, how insatiable. Which Stiles proves then as he jerks Peter in closer by his belt loops, and Peter finds himself smirking, because Stiles doesn't just want it. He's _gagging_ for it.

Despite all that they've done over the last few months, Peter isn't sure if he'll ever truly get used to how good it feels to have Stiles' focused attention on him. The soft, teasing press of Stiles' lips to the head of his cock is blatant, but nowhere near enough. Still, Peter appreciates the gesture, and he _definitely_ appreciates the hunger in Stiles' eyes. Still, Peter grunts softly and reaches down, grabbing his hand in Stiles' hair the way he had before. The way he knows that Stiles likes. Then he steps closer, rubbing his hardening cock against Stiles' plush lips with his free hand.

"I don't think you understood," Peter says, almost whimsically. "Teasing, while _adorable_ , is not 'worth my while'. Don't half-ass it if you're serious. Give it your all."

* * *

Stiles _is_ hungry for it. It doesn't matter if his jeans are getting dirty or that his knees don't feel especially great like this. He fucking _wants_ it. He wants to fuck around with Peter. He _wants_ to suck Peter's dick beside this trash receptacle and in this alleyway where they could possibly get caught. Oh, he doesn't want to get caught, but the risk? The threat? It's like a jolt of energy to his system and Stiles likes it. He fucking likes Peter's focus and attention, the mutual interest that radiates between them.

Has he always been like this? Stiles doesn't think so, but he doesn't know when his body decided to apparently have his sex drive ramp up. Naturally, Stiles wants to blame Peter because Stiles had fooled around a bit before and it had been fun, sure, but Stiles had never hungered for it. Not like this. It's curious, but now isn't the time to reflect on the curiosities of his apparent whackadoo-yeehaw sex life with Peter.

Peter's hand finds its way to his head, fingers gripping once more. Stiles makes a pleased sound but before he can make some little remark like ' _can't keep your hands off of me, can you?_ ' Peter is stepping closer and rubbing his cock against his mouth.

Stiles makes duck lips because he might as well give Peter more lip-age. The goading about his adorable teasing proves that Peter is actually serious about making this a challenge.

No half-assing it. Give it his all.

"Fine then," Stiles articulates sharply before smacking his lips. He wastes no further time, opens his mouth, and takes Peter's cock in. Stiles immediately sucks and bobs his head, his tongue rubbing against the underside, coaxing Peter to harden fully. Stiles' hands lift to hold onto Peter's hips and his eyes continue looking up. It doesn't take long before he gets enthusiastic and sloppy - just the way Peter likes him to be.

* * *

There's a small part of Peter that wonders if maybe Stiles will find some hidden limit. One small instance of _too much_ or _too far_ in this reckless little game that they're playing. One moment that will either leave Peter run through or facing down a metaphorically-loaded barrel of extremely-pissed-off werewolves. Peter should really be more concerned about it, but there's something else running things now. Oh, he's still leery over possible complications and dangers. He's still _aware_ that this is a horrible idea, and downright trashy to boot.

But that ugly, twisting void of possessiveness that had bared its fangs and snarled in his chest the moment his phone had lit up with the picture of that hickey is just as loud and just as prominent as it had been when Peter had first stepped out of his apartment. He's not fully thinking of the risks here - not any more than the risk to his own well-being, anyway. He's focused on fighting back the voice that snarls that he should mark up every inch of Stiles' body to make sure that Peter's mark will always be more prevalent.

Peter's not aware of the glint his eyes take in those seconds, but the quick spark of violent blue almost immediately cuts out when Stiles doesn't wait even a second before _acting_. It's all that Peter can do to not laugh with satisfaction when Stiles just looks at him, snaps his answer, and then all but lunges for Peter's dick. Peter groans, taking his hand away from his cock and pressing his clothed forearm to the brick far above Stiles' head, still caging him in even now.

Stiles' mouth is a wash of hot, wet heat, and it's _perfect_. If there's one thing that Peter is never going to fault Stiles for, it's the boy's oral fixation, because he doesn't waste time in going for it. Even if Peter had been holding back, he knows he wouldn't have been able to. Stiles sucks, his tongue does _wicked_ things, and Peter feels his dick thicken, feels it fill out and harden fully almost too easily. He looks down, watching raptly, and when he realizes that Stiles is watching _him_ , Peter feels a small jolt in his chest that feels like excitement, arousal, and danger. He loves it.

" _That's_ more like it," he breathes, fingers carding through Stiles' hair in praise as he watches the utterly debauched picture that Stiles makes. " _Just_ like that. Show me what you've got, Stiles." Peter's lips curl into a smirk. "Impress me."

* * *

Stiles' actions have culminated into this, into Peter dragging him out here, forcing him down, and offering this little debauched scene for them to play in. He'd gotten Peter out, catching his scent and tracking him here to the club. Because apparently Peter doesn't like subpar hickeys and now Stiles knows this. Maybe it had been a case of petty jealousy, a random streak of possessiveness on Peter's end, but it doesn't matter. Not really. Not when Stiles is getting what he wants. They both are. No one is getting hurt. It's perfect.

Stiles likes giving oral sex. It's an intimate wet challenge, a meeting of his quick tongue and full lips to very sensitive skin. Sucking Peter's dick is no different. Stiles likes how Peter is looming over him, likes the hand in his hair, likes Peter looking down at him. There's not much light in this alley, but Stiles' can at least see the outline of Peter.

Peter's cock is nothing to laugh over either. It's not easy to accommodate the inches of silky hardness but Stiles doesn't mind a little struggle. Struggling builds character - at least that's what Stiles has always been told by his Dad. Excess spit starts to become a small problem, but Stiles doesn't want to pull off and catch his breath and swallow. He pushes on, basking at the tactile delight from Peter's fingers brushing through his hair, his scalp tingling.

' _Impress me.'_

It's a command that Stiles has no problem fully indulging in. He takes a rushed inhale through his nose before he begins to bob his head in earnest, working as much as he can comfortably. Stiles may be on his knees, but he actually finds this empowering. He's consented to this and Peter is more than a little engaged.

Stiles has won. He is winning. Stiles throws himself into the task and soon enough he's moaning hungrily before purposely pushing himself to the point of gagging.

The gagging is a strange sensation of discomfort and thrill - something he'll never get over, something that pushes him to keep on pushing himself. Spit leaks from the corners of Stiles' mouth, his eyes watering as his gag reflex protests unhappily, but he's got this.

When Stiles needs a break, he pulls back and lets his throat relax just a little. Stiles' eyes are still locked onto Peter. Where else would he look anyway?

* * *

Peter loves Stiles' mouth. Above all else, no matter how many times that Stiles has begged Peter to fuck him, there's still something special about _this_. It's indulgent in the way that sex isn't, because whenever Stiles gets down on his knees, or lays across the bed and opens his mouth for Peter, it's not _for_ him. Maybe Stiles does get something out of it (and Peter knows that he does) but there's something about being the recipient of so much focused attention that really appeals to Peter.

Stiles is _willingly_ on his knees on dirty, cold asphalt because Peter had shoved him there. Stiles could have fought, could have wrenched away. Hell, he could have bitten if he'd had a death wish. But he hadn't. He hadn't, and Peter can smell the spike in Stiles' arousal, can tell how badly Stiles wants this. It's a chance to show off. It's a chance to give back, and to be shoved down and controlled, and Peter has long suspected that Stiles _likes_ it. He likes being contained, likes being reminded that Peter is stronger. That Peter could stop him were anything to happen.

It's... perhaps mildly unsettling to think that something _could_ happen, but Peter's less focused on that than he is on the hot, tight, wet feeling of Stiles' mouth around his dick. And Stiles, to his credit, does not half-ass it. He goes for it, bobbing his head messily, making eye contact the whole time, and Peter feels a visceral shiver prickle down his spine as he drinks in the look on Stiles' face. Stiles sucks cock like a professional, and _that's_ saying something.

Peter groans low in his throat as he pets Stiles' hair, bracing himself against the wall with his free arm. Stiles sucks him like his life depends on it, and at that first spasm around the head of his cock, Peter curses his praise under his breath and watches as Stiles' eyes water from the strain. Peter wonders, idly, if he could get Stiles' eyes to water for another reason. Desperation, intensity... something to think about. But his thoughts shakily withdraw from that topic as Stiles draws back to take a break and catch his breath.

Letting out a low, unsteady breath, Peter swallows. His cock is throbbing and slick with Stiles' saliva, and wet with the beginnings of precome. Peter looks at Stiles for a second, and then eases his hips back, sliding his dick free. He takes it in his hand and presses the head to Stiles' reddened, slick lips, tracing the line of them and then rolling his hips forward. Peter rubs against Stiles' cheek, his jaw, feeling the faintest scratch of stubble that indicates that Stiles isn't so much a boy as he is a man by now. The visual is thrilling.

"I don't think I've ever met _anyone_ who likes gagging on another man's cock as much as you do," Peter says silkily, and while it sounds pointed, it also sounds oddly like praise. Peter shifts, pressing one leg closer, fitting it between Stiles' legs because he can. "Or maybe it's because of the situation. Maybe you _like_ being my bitch."

* * *

Eye contact while doing something like this is usually hot. It's not really possible to do with his face between a girl's thighs, but with guys? Yeah, Stiles will try. He likes observing their reactions, seeing their sometimes embarrassment at seeing Stiles be so bold and cocky.

Peter has never been like that, however. Peter has never shied away from his own pleasure or from their weirdly intense prolonged eye contact. Had it always been like that? Stiles tries to think back to those first few times of frenzied hands and snarky, inciting comments. He tries to remember when there had been _firsts_ between them... Had he been interested in eye fucking the shit out of Peter? Had Peter been as taken with him and his attention? (Somehow Stiles thinks no, but when had that changed?)

Peter is on the quieter end of vocal, but that just means any sound Stiles _does_ hear matters more. They're usually lower groans of pleasure or growling, but they get Stiles' pulse picking up. From the hickeys and now doing this, Stiles' dick is uncomfortably hard within his own jeans. He doesn't reach down to try and adjust himself. It's just another sensation that's added to the ongoing list kept in his mind (his neck feels a little raw and sore, his knees protest the hardness underneath them, his fingers are cold despite holding onto Peter's waist).

Stiles only smiles when Peter pulls back. He's breathing harder, trying to calm down from his throat's agitation. Peter slides his dick and blatantly begins rubbing spit-slick skin across Stiles' mouth, across his cheek and Stiles' eyes narrow - but in interest. He can tell that Peter is only doing it for the perverse image because Peter fucking likes that kind of thing (same with Stiles).

The comments that come his way are very Peter and Stiles takes the first one as a compliment - because why yes he can enjoy gagging on a cock, but it certainly depends on the time and place and just whose dick it is. A leg works its way between his own knees. Stiles could shift closer and rub against Peter's shin, but right now he's got other things on his mind.

"If anything we're _both_ bitches," Stiles says as lightly as his throat will allow. "One hickey and you were on your way to give me a better one. Competitive, much? Or just possessive?"

* * *

There's a part of Peter that does expect Stiles to immediately start grinding against his shin as soon as Peter gives him the option, so he's half-surprised when Stiles doesn't seem inclined. He can scent the arousal on the air (along with other, less-savory things considering how close to the dumpster they are) and the fact that Stiles isn't trying to rush ahead to take whatever scraps that Peter opts to give him is interesting.

It means that there's something in this encounter that Stiles wants _more_ , and it doesn't take a genius to figure it out. Stiles hasn't leaned away from Peter's dick once, and he doesn't shy away from Peter rubbing against his cheek, his lips. Instead, Stiles' eyes narrow in a quick, cunning look of thought. Peter likes it.

Stiles, to his credit, doesn't rise to Peter's bait. Calling him a _bitch_ is a little catty, perhaps, but he'd only returned the favor. Besides, Stiles doesn't argue. He shoots back, his voice soft to attempt to save face, but Peter smirks slowly, amused. He can hear the hoarseness in Stiles' voice and the thought of how thoroughly he could wreck Stiles is a pleasant one. Even if Stiles _is_ calling out his change of heart.

Peter snorts softly, dismissively. He traces the head of his dick around Stiles' lips again, watching them pale under the pressure, and delighting in the small traces of slick left behind. He doesn't _need_ to continue talking, but why not? Peter's feeling charitable.

"Why can't it be both?" He asks airily, sliding his hand from Stiles' hair to cup under his chin. Peter tilts Stiles' head back, his thumb tracing over the delicate dip of Stiles' lower lip before sliding into his mouth just enough to press down on his lower teeth. He does it because he _can_ , because Stiles will let him, and perhaps to prove a point. Peter doesn't look away from Stiles' eyes once.

"I don't like other people touching my things. Even if those things are sentient and - arguably - intelligent. And frankly, I'm not sure _how_ desperate you were to think that you could _ever_ find someone to sate you the way that I can." Peter lifts his eyebrows, eyes glinting. " _That's_ what we call an insult, Stiles. I don't like being insulted."

* * *

Stiles is in no way bothered about being sexually forward. He'd have no problem leaning forward and rubbing his crotch against Peter's offered shin (Stiles is seeing it as an offering at least). He could hump Peter's leg like a dog even. No big deal - and it shouldn't be if they're two consenting people. Of course there's no guarantee that Peter would _let_ him do that. Stiles already knows that Peter gets off on being withholding at times - aka being a bitch - but Stiles does too - although Stiles doesn't usually tease for _that_ long.

His own orgasm isn't his goal - at least not yet. Stiles wants to keep playing, he wants this to continue. He wants more of Peter, more of the roughness and attitude, more of the back and forth. It's fun and it's liberating to be able to be like this, to not have to worry about Scott's opinion. Or his maybe-lingering crush on Lydia. Or the maybe-thing that he almost got into with Malia (which is still amusing considering he's now fooling around with her dad). Stiles loves all his friends, he does, but considering _he's_ the reason why Scott's first love and Lydia's best friend is dead? It's messy and complicated (and while around them, Stiles just acts goofy and fine because what else can he do?).

Stiles doesn't pull away when Peter purposely rubs the wet tip of his dick against his lips. Stiles knows he has wonderful dick sucking lips anyway. Who _wouldn't_ want to touch them?

Peter answers with _both_ \- that he'd been both competitive and jealous. That sounds about right to Stiles. He doesn't resist Peter's hand coming to tip his head back and he doesn't protest as a thumb comes to glide across his lips before pushing in. Stiles' eyes light up with obvious delight as Peter presses the pad of his thumb against his teeth.

He likely should be offended or concerned that Peter thinks of him as a _thing_ \- as property - but Stiles is more intrigued with Peter turning Stiles' decision to go out and get some as an insult to _Peter's_ skill. This has Stiles glaring back and he grinds his bottom teeth up against Peter's thumb. He then gives a noisy, tight suck before pulling back, a satisfying _pop_ heard.

"And I don't like being lied to," Stiles retorts. "If you want me to be _yours_ , you'd better satisfy me on a regular basis then."

* * *

There are moments to be honest and there are moments to withhold, and Peter loses nothing by being honest in this instance. He _could_ lie, of course, could claim that he'd not felt the desire to overshadow Stiles' other dalliances, that he'd _not_ felt possessive, Peter also suspects that he's earned more regard by not skimming over that little gem. Stiles looks pleased - at least until he doesn't. Then Peter is treated to the sight of Stiles' eyes narrowing. The pressure on his thumb increases, but Peter's felt much worse than Stiles fighting back with a little half-bite. In truth, it just makes him want to fuck Stiles against the wall even more.

But he won't. There are certain things that Peter will gladly do to Stiles, and fucking him rough and quick is one of them. Fucking him _raw_ is not. He can rough Stiles up so long as Stiles can act normal around the pack, but if Peter were stupid enough to hurt him obviously, there would be hell to pay. So while Stiles' glare makes his breath catch in his throat (he's beginning to understand that he _likes_ it when Stiles pushes back) Peter doesn't punish him for it. Instead he lets Stiles suck at his thumb and speak his piece.

_'...I don't like being lied to. If you want me to be yours, you'd better satisfy me on a regular basis then.'_

For a human, Stiles is far too adept at picking out lies. Peter wonders for a brief second if maybe there's another reason for that... but he'll deal with that later. The rest of Stiles' threat is _much_ more interesting.

"You're already mine," Peter says smoothly, sliding his hand down to pinch both sides of Stiles' jaw with his fingers. Peter is careful as he wedges Stiles' mouth open, giving him ample time to work _with_ Peter instead of fighting him. It's a thrill to roll his hips, his cock sliding into Stiles' mouth just enough to press against the inside of his cheek, the flesh smooth and silken. Peter's smirk is like a living thing. "You already know that. You didn't _have_ to take that picture. I never would have known, and you could have had your fun. But you wanted _me._ "

Peter wets his lips and eases back, releasing Stiles' jaw. "But... if you want me to satisfy you, you'd better show me how badly you want it. Before I get bored."

* * *

Peter had apparently been worried about him having some psychotic break and that's why Peter hadn't been all gung-ho about getting together. Because pretty much all of the pack would totally go ahead and blame Peter if he was found to be linked to him in some fashion - Stiles gets it. Now he's learned that he can't try and hook up with Peter soon after a nightmare which is fine with him.

Maybe his nightmare sweat reminds Peter of his own. Maybe Peter only wants him in tip-top shape (if that even exists). Whatever. Stiles isn't expecting Peter to be any sort of real emotional support here. He'd never been looking for that.

They've never talked exclusivity. They've never talked about monogamy or anything like that. All they've done is see each a few times per week - at least until these last two weeks. The texting is usually purposeful and for planning. Normally it's just boink-n-go, but sometimes one of them is too lazy to leave immediately and they'll exist next to each other, maybe on their phone or a laptop, maybe simply relaxing. It's not really hanging out. It's nothing that strikes Stiles as particularly relationship-y or deep, and yet they're talking about ownership and claim and stuff like that is usually labeled as "unhealthy."

Stiles doesn't care.

This thing with Peter somehow doesn't feel like it's too big and it's nothing that Stiles wants to stop. Not yet.

Peter's words are both honeyed and sharp and they heatedly wash over Stiles.

' _You're already mine...'_ Three simple words, a claim laid, and Stiles finds that he isn't bothered by it. Peter's hand travels down to his chin and fingers manipulate Stiles to open his mouth.

He doesn't fight it. His eyes are wide and bright and he knows where this is going. Peter pushes his cock back in and Stiles doesn't pull back or even blink as Peter continues.

 _He didn't have to take a picture..._ True.

 _Peter would have never known and Stiles could have had his so called fun..._ True.

 _But Stiles wanted **him**... _True.

Peter then pulls out and lets go of Stiles' jaw as another challenge or threat is issued. The idea of _him_ boring Peter has Stiles rolling his eyes. As if.

"Your wish is my command," he replies cheekily before going back to it with vigor. His fingers grip Peter's hips hard as he enthusiastically works up and down Peter's cock. Stiles slurps and sucks, enjoying how hot and hard Peter's cock is. Last time Peter jizzed on him, but this time Stiles wants a real taste and he's going to get it. It's not long until Stiles is deepthroating Peter and then urging Peter's hips forward with his hands, clearly indicating that he wants Peter to thrust and fuck his throat.

* * *

Peter is beginning to wonder if he _could_ get bored with Stiles, what with the last few weeks as evidence. Yes, he's been looking up potential reasons for what he'd seen that night in Stiles' bedroom, but that's not what he's thinking about as he looks down at Stiles and sees the flicker of open, ravenous interest in his eyes. Before that - before any of this - Stiles had been something... else. Something different. A challenge, an escape, a distraction. By nature of his very existence, Peter's boredom hasn't been as strong, and his instincts have felt more settled. Which is a far greater success than Peter has ever openly admitted to.

His instincts are burned and vicious, impulses of violence that he forces back a few times a day. But Stiles? Stiles is an outlet. Engaging, _interesting_ , and as Peter looks down at him and watches as Stiles rises to the challenge, he feels the wolf in his chest throw its head back and howl.

Stiles' mouth is heat and wetness and suction, and Peter can feel the difference immediately. Stiles hadn't been slacking off before, but there's something very intent in each suck this time. Stiles throws himself into this with abandon, like he wants nothing more than to gag on Peter's cock. Peter groans low in the back of his throat, appreciative, and his fingers find Stiles' hair again. He doesn't grip, but he does pet, giving Stiles full access to do what he likes.

And he does _beautifully_. Stiles sucks like his life is on the line. He bobs his head and doesn't mind his saliva, and he pushes more and more until Peter can feel the tight clench of the back of Stiles' throat. He curses softly, his own form of praise, and before he can push, or incite, Stiles takes the next step himself.

The first tight clench of Stiles' throat around his dick is enough to make Peter's lip curl. He growls low under his breath as he feels muscles clench and pull around him, and the temptation to move is almost overwhelming. Stiles, thankfully, seems to both agree and understand, and all it takes is that first touch of Stiles' hands for Peter to understand.

"You _do_ like pushing yourself, don't you?" Peter asks breathlessly, pleasure clawing through him. "Tap my leg if you need to breathe." And that's all the warning he gives as he curls his fingers into Stiles' hair tightly to keep his head still, and then grinds his hips forwards. He feels Stiles' throat convulse, feels Stiles struggling to accommodate him but that just makes it all the better. Peter _is_ careful as he fucks Stiles' throat, but he can already tell that he won't have to be for long. Shuddering, a little breathless, he draws back just enough so Stiles can speak.

"In your mouth or down your throat? Take your pick."

* * *

Peter grooms and washes his junk so Stiles doesn't mind having a face full of it. If that hadn't been the case Stiles wouldn't be willing to stay on his knees and suck Peter's cock. By now it's more than obvious that Peter loves his mouth and Stiles happens to enjoy Peter's enjoyment. Besides, there's something so electrifying about being appreciated like this. Stiles doesn't have a huge ego (not like a certain someone), but he has his pride and confidence in his skill and he's fully committed to providing a good service here.

After all, maybe Peter deserves a nice big treat. Peter had made the trek out here and given him some improved reworked hickeys. Speaking of the hickeys, Stiles' neck still feels a little sore from Peter's mouth-handling, but he finds himself more curious about observing how the bruises will change and heal. Already Stiles knows that he's going to have to be prepared to field questions and comments about the canvas of passion he now has. Should be fun...

It is fun right now, but it's not especially easy when Peter does what Stiles wants and starts fucking his throat. The out is appreciated, but Stiles has no plan on tapping Peter's leg to get him to stop. Because Peter is right - Stiles _does_ like pushing himself. Stiles feels that familiar struggle rise up, the urge to move and pull back to allow himself to breathe easier, but he fights it down.

His eyes water but Stiles simply tries to blink away the tears, uncaring if a few do roll down his cheek (Peter probably likes the picture of it anyway). Peter isn't overly aggressive, but it's still a dick hitting the back of his throat and him gagging instinctively.

It takes Stiles a moment to process the question as he catches his breath, his lips and chin wet with spit. "Th-throat," Stiles answers hoarsely and he takes a deep breath before taking Peter's thick cock back into his mouth. It's Stiles who works himself down, purposefully gagging himself with the intent of getting Peter to come.

* * *

It's a cursory question at best, one that Peter is only half-paying attention to. It's hard to focus on the smaller details like Stiles actually _having_ a choice when his mouth feels so fucking perfect. Still, Peter's not _that_ much of an asshole (though he considers it) and ultimately, hasn't Stiles more than earned a little something extra after all his hard work? Peter waits, breathless, and as he looks down at Stiles, he takes in the flush to his lips and the faintest glisten of tears that have rolled down Stiles' cheeks from the intensity. Yes, Stiles _has_ earned this choice...

Still, there's a sharp stab of satisfaction that curls through Peter's chest when Stiles makes his choice. The thought of it sends a possessive thrill through Peter's whole body, and he doesn't bother to temper the glow to his eyes this time as Stiles looks up at him and then moves in himself. Peter doesn't do a damn thing, watching with mild amazement as Stiles goes for what he clearly wants.

Stiles doesn't cut corners - not that he'd been slacking before - but he takes it a step beyond even that, and Peter curses roughly under his breath, bending at the waist and tangling his fingers hard into Stiles' hair. He leans his free arm against the wall for support, and he lets himself feel it as his cock slides deep into Stiles' throat. He basks in the heat, in the tightness and the convulsion that proves that Stiles is gagging around him, and _fuck_ , Peter isn't sure he's seen Stiles go for it like this before.

It's enough. Just being back in Stiles' mouth would have been enough, but Peter doesn't say that. He snarls, his lip curling as he forces Stiles' head down harder and then keeps him there. All it takes is a grind of his hips - rude by most standards, but Stiles won't care - and Peter feels pleasure crash down around him. He breathes out Stiles' name - his own little form of praise - and groans deeply as his cock pulses. It's almost not Peter's choice as he feels himself shoot hot down Stiles' throat, but he hardly cares. Stiles is _good_ with his mouth, and it's been two weeks. He'd needed this. They both had.

* * *

It'd be easier for Peter to come in Stiles' mouth. Stiles knows it and Peter does too. If Peter jizzes in his mouth it allows him to have the choice if he wants to spit it out or swallow. Down his throat is a little more difficult because spitting out isn't exactly easy. Stiles could possibly cough Peter's baby-makin' juice back up, but that doesn't seem very appealing. Stiles plans on swallowing (although spitting Peter's come out on his shoes _would_ be entertaining, but Stiles thinks that Peter would likely knee him in the face and no thank you).

Against the sounds of his own gagging and wet spit'ness, Stiles can't really hear Peter's curses or growls, but he knows that Peter is close and he doesn't need to hear any of those encouragements. Stiles' throat protests unhappily, convulsing from the agitation of Peter's cock. There's spit drooling out from the corners of his mouth and a few tears from his eyes, but Stiles soldiers on. He pushes himself and then Peter pushes too, grinding in deep and then Peter is coming.

Hot, thick come hits the back of Stiles' throat and there's definitely a desire to gag and push away - to spit it out and then breathe normally - but Stiles resists. He forces himself to stay still and let Peter have his blissful moment. He forces himself to play his part in this. It does get to a point where Stiles needs to pull away and he does. Thankfully Peter allows him and Stiles inhales through his nostrils as he swallows Peter's come.

He's a mess as he looks up, lips slick and swollen, eyes wet, spit on his chin, cheeks flushed, but Stiles doesn't care. He doesn't wipe at his face and he doesn't try and collect himself. This is what he wanted. Stiles simply looks up and catches Peter's eyes.

" _You're welcome_ ," he mouths.

* * *

Even before Peter comes down, he suspects that he'll be reliving this moment in his mind on more than one occasion. There's something so perfectly shameless about the way that Stiles throws himself into this full-throttle, and Peter basks in the hot pleasure that sparks through him. He doesn't close his eyes, doesn't look away, and so he gets to watch the way that Stiles struggles, and the way that Stiles' tears spill over his cheeks and his lips flush so dark that they're almost raw with the effort. He doesn't draw back immediately, which _is_ poor etiquette, but there's something so satisfying about watching Stiles struggle and _love_ it.

Still, Peter's not completely irrational and so when Stiles pushes at him, Peter does draw back enough to let Stiles breathe and swallow. It's messy and wet, saliva dripping down Stiles' chin, and he looks like he's been through the wringer. Yet despite that, through the haze of pleasure, Peter can see the sharp satisfaction in Stiles' eyes. He adds more to his mental image of Stiles, more little building blocks that seem to steadily be forming a different image. One that is either dangerous, or thrilling. Peter hasn't decided yet.

Peter takes his time as he slowly draws back from Stiles' mouth. His cock is sensitive and a bit of a mess, but Peter doesn't care. He's beyond satisfied, and watching as Stiles just looks up at him and mouths what he does is enough to make Peter smirk. He has to hand it to Stiles; he's absolutely unrepentant and shameless, and there's something _viciously_ appealing about that.

Only a few minutes ago, Peter had considered forcing Stiles to suck him off (well, as much as he's _ever_ 'forced' Stiles to do anything), and then leaving out of residual spite for the manipulation. Now he is... less inclined. Especially when he takes in how utterly debauched Stiles looks on his knees in the middle of a dirty alleyway, with saliva and tears wetting his face. Peter breathes out slowly and looks Stiles over once.

"You know... something tells me that if I were to shove you against the wall and fuck you here, you'd _love_ it. But... I'm feeling charitable. What do you want, Stiles? Tell me," he adds, smirk widening. "I'd like to _hear_ it."

* * *

Stiles' throat doesn't feel really great, his jeans are dirty, knees sore, his face and hair are a mess, but it's all good with him. Why shouldn't good sex leave you messy? Not that all sex has to be some animalistic pursuit, but Stiles certainly likes the wilder and rougher... Has it always been like that? Stiles doesn't think so, but preferences can adapt and change over time. Makes sense to him.

Even in the low lighting, Stiles can see the very obvious smirk that's on Peter's face. They're both unapologetic in their enjoyment of what just happened. Getting hickeys in an alley? Sucking and gagging on Peter's dick beside a dumpster in said alley? It'd been a risk - but a fun one. Stiles doesn't scramble for either of them to clean up. He doesn't try and get Peter to tuck himself back in and do up his jeans. Given Peter's senses, no one will surprise sneak up on them. So there.

Stiles almost asks Peter to get the lube from his Jeep (because shoved and fucked against the wall here sounds great), but then Peter emphasizes wanting to _hear_ him talk. Stiles' mouth twitches knowingly. Peter wants to hear his rough, raspy voice. Peter wants the validation of his dick having fucked up his throat. Stiles can do that.

"What I'd like," Stiles begins, his voice sounding exactly how it should after such an activity."Is you to take me somewhere where I can ride you nice and slow until _you_ can't handle it anymore."

It's only now that Stiles wipes his mouth off on the back of his hand.


	4. Possessive

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter wants _Stiles'_ scent in his bedroom, after all. Not the scent of the dozens of people he'd cozied up to that evening. Peter's still a werewolf, still a creature of habit, and this _is_ his territory. He doesn't want it smelling like strangers, and Stiles? Stiles hasn't been a stranger for a long time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (•̀ᴗ•́)و ̑̑ yassssssssssss!

There's no finesse involved as Peter pulls Stiles up off of the pavement he's been kneeling on for the better part of an hour. He doesn't ask permission, and he doesn't have to. Stiles' eyes are bright with desire and mischief, and he stands willingly when Peter pulls him up. Fixing their appearance is simple, though as Peter watches Stiles pat down his hair and right his clothes, he catches sight of the prominent hickeys on the side of Stiles' throat. Peter eyes them appreciatively as he tucks himself away, and reaches out to grab the back of Stiles' shirt. He leads Stiles out from the back of the alleyway that he'd been kneeling in, and out towards the parking lot.

Stiles makes a move to go for his Jeep once they're out front, but Peter makes a split-second decision. Something possessive - and arguably sadistic - lights in his chest, and after a sidelong look at Stiles, he smirks and tugs Stiles in the _other_ direction. Any protest is cut off (and beautifully rasped due to the irritation of Stiles' throat) as Peter walks to his motorcycle, grabs the helmet, and tosses it at Stiles, who catches it after a brief fumble.

"Get on, and hang on tight," Peter says as he swings his leg over the seat of the bike. He looks back at Stiles, who looks like he's about to protest further, and Peter kicks the engine to life with a quick rev of his hands. " _If_ you want me to give you what you want, that is..."

There's a brief moment where Stiles looks a little torn. Then Peter watches as he pulls the helmet on decisively and awkwardly scrambles up onto the back of Peter's bike. Stiles wraps his arms around Peter with prompting, and Peter smirks to himself as he pulls out of the parking lot and into traffic, leaving Stiles' Jeep behind for him to pick up later. A little revenge never hurt anyone.

Besides, as the bike speeds down the roads leading to Peter's apartment, his rationale becomes apparent. The bike rumbles deeply under them, and Stiles - likely _very_ unused to riding on one - keeps needing to adjust his grip or press in closer. Peter can feel him squirming, can feel the hard press of Stiles' dick against his lower back, and the knowledge that Stiles is hard and uncomfortable and desperate only appeals to Peter more.

To his credit, he doesn't draw it out. He takes the quickest path that he can as he drives to his apartment. And when they arrive, Peter kills the engine on his bike with a smirk, casting a sly look in Stiles' direction, and then gets up and leads the way up to his apartment. He walks quickly, and the moment that Stiles passes the threshold, Peter closes the door by crowding Stiles up against it, leaning down to mouth appreciatively at the angry red marks on Stiles' throat, now glaringly obvious in the light.

* * *

It's no surprise that Stiles would prefer to drive his Jeep over to Peter's apartment. He doesn't want to have to rely on Peter to get back to his vehicle or have to bum a ride from a friend (because who's he kidding, Peter isn't going to drop him back off). He could take a taxi but those are always such a rip-off. Stiles doubts that anyone but Derek knows where Peter lives, but still... He doesn't want Peter being connected to him. Not yet at least. Stiles doesn't delude himself into believing that this will remain a secret for much longer, especially if they're getting more reckless like this. It's only a matter of time.

But he _does_ want to get off and he wants Peter to be directly responsible. He wants to ride Peter nice and slow and work him up if possible (although Stiles is aware that _he's_ at a disadvantage from not having got off earlier). 

Stiles isn't sold on the whole riding behind Peter on a motorbike thing, but hey, he has a helmet and he doubts that Peter is going to try and fling him off. It's no surprise to him that Peter had deliberately chosen this either. Like this, his legs spread and the seat underneath him, Stiles is pressed close and his boner is right up against Peter's back. The ride is probably smooth, but Stiles is still a little thrown by it because it's out of his comfort zone and all. He supposes it _is_ merely upping the ante and keeping him on his toes. 

The vibration and power of the Harley is... undoubtedly really sexy (as if Peter needed anything else to make him more appealing). The trip doesn't last that long and then Stiles is following Peter into the familiar apartment. They don't speak as they ride the elevator up and they don't speak as Peter unlocks his door. Stiles _could_ say something when Peter pins him up against the door inside, but instead, a broken groan is what comes out. Peter is kissing at his bruised neck, stubble dragging against abused skin delightfully, and Stiles tilts his head to the side allowing easier access.

Lazily, Stiles grinds his hips forward as his arms loop around Peter's waist. "Surely we don't need the foreplay," he rasps. Stiles fully plans on fingering himself open in record time here as he's not going to trust that Peter wouldn't tease him ruthlessly.

* * *

Peter doesn't really _need_ to reacquaint himself with the marks that he'd left on Stiles' throat, but sue him. He's being momentarily sentimental, or as close to it as Peter ever gets. Possession and sentiment are basically interchangeable, and as Peter feels Stiles all but melt against the door and grind up against him in return, Peter gives in to the urge to bite, though only briefly. 

Much as he would love to mark Stiles' throat up to unrecognizable proportions, he's not quite so far gone yet. Though even as Stiles speaks up - still perfectly raspy and raw - Peter wonders how long it will be before he _is_ that far gone. Up until now, he's never left marks this high up on Stiles' throat before, and while common sense says that Peter should be far away from the pack when they notice, a part of him wants to be there. 

But that's a thought for later, when he's feeling markedly less reckless. Peter makes himself draw back with a hissed sigh. He looks down at Stiles, breathing in his scent even if it _is_ clouded by the faded smell of alcohol and smoke, and Peter wets his lips thoughtfully.

"No, I suppose we don't. You more than covered that base on your own, didn't you?" His voice is all smooth, smug amusement as he moves his hands down to give Stiles' hips a quick squeeze. Then Peter steps back and jerks his chin towards the hallway. He hastily steps out of his shoes and pulls off his jacket, tossing it over the back of his recliner in a rare moment of impulsiveness. Then, with Stiles rushing to catch up with him, Peter leads the way into his bedroom, where Stiles' scent has long since faded.

Peter doesn't waste time as he strips himself down. His jeans are already rumpled, and he hadn't bothered to put them right after Stiles' blowjob, so he might as well. Peter tosses his shirt onto the dresser and steps out of his boxers, unrepentant. He doesn't have anything to be ashamed of. He doesn't often strip fully naked when he's with Stiles, but given Stiles' request, it seems appropriate. Not to mention Peter _wants_ Stiles to stare.

"Take off your clothes and leave them out in the hallway. They reek of crowds and regret," Peter says as he sits down on the edge of his bed. "Chop, chop, Stiles."

* * *

They've done this before - Peter pinning him up against a wall or a door and both of them knowing that it was just a stepping off point. Even so, this feels different now. They've never done anything so reckless or near the public before. Stiles had never wanted to risk it. But it's only now that Stiles is back in Peter's apartment - in somewhat familiar territory - that he realizes it's different for them to be coming back to one of their place's to fuck _after_ already doing something. It's always just been a meet-up, maybe some bickering or snark, and then whatever sexual activities they happen to get into before one of them splits afterward. 

It's thrilling and it's terrifying and when Peter pulls back, Stiles knows that Peter's agrees. Stiles follows suit, bending down to untie his sneakers and kick 'em off. Peter's faster than him which is no big surprise, but Stiles just hurries after him.

What _is_ a surprise is that Peter looks like he's taking _everything_ off - which is actually pretty rare. Usually, it's all hurry, hurry bang bang and some article of clothing is haphazardly left on, but apparently not tonight. So Stiles _is_ staring at Peter - he's taking in the blatant muscles, the broad shoulders and jaw - _mm yeah_.

So when Peter does speak up, Stiles is hovering in the doorframe. Reeking of crowds and regret? Stiles doesn't know about the regret part, but there's more important things to do, like getting naked (because why not). Stiles gives a flourished spin as he decides to strut out into the hallway and strip there. If Peter is going to be sensitive, Stiles isn't going to let Peter watch him get baby-naked. 

In less than fifteen seconds Stiles is back in the room, his dick hard and swinging between his legs as he quickly dims the light. 

"Grab the lube and lay back on the bed, pretty please," Stiles says and smiles cheekily. After Peter does just that, Stiles is crawling on the bed on his hands and knees and climbing on top of Peter. Hovering over him, Stiles looks down at Peter. 

"Hey sexy. You'd better be able to get it up for me."

* * *

While Peter isn't particularly pleased that Stiles ducks completely out of sight to strip out of his clothes, Peter dismisses the thought quickly enough. He'd seen the way that Stiles had been looking at him, and despite the fact that Peter's ego doesn't need a boost, he's unquestionably pleased with himself as he glances towards the door, listening to the hasty shuffling of clothing that tells him that Stiles is doing what he'd said. 

Peter wants _Stiles'_ scent in his bedroom, after all. Not the scent of the dozens of people he'd cozied up to that evening. Peter's still a werewolf, still a creature of habit, and this _is_ his territory. He doesn't want it smelling like strangers, and Stiles? Stiles hasn't been a stranger for a long time.

Peter doesn't look away from the doorway, and when Stiles comes back in, Peter lets himself have a moment where he drinks in the sight of Stiles, naked and hard. Stiles dims the lights but it doesn't affect Peter's vision at all. Instead he simply considers the request that Stiles gives him, and Peter deems the _pretty please_ sufficient enough. Still eyeing Stiles appreciatively, Peter reaches back and takes the lube from his side table and then easily lays himself back on the bed, one hand tucking in behind his head as he watches Stiles come over.

There's a faint hunger in Peter's eyes as Stiles joins him, and while Peter's not usually the one looking _up_ at Stiles, he doesn't mind now considering _why_ Stiles is on top of him. Peter wets his lips with a quick flick of his tongue and he reaches down with his free hand to press the tube of lube into Stiles' hand before reaching down to give his ass a slow, appreciative squeeze.

"You know, _strangely_ , I don't think that's going to be a problem, provided you make this good. I _am_ capable of going more than once a night despite being-- what was it? Thirty-nine?" Peter's eyes narrow slightly. Yeah, he hasn't forgotten _that_ one. "I'm not over the hill just yet."

* * *

It doesn't escape Stiles' notice that this current position isn't one he's often in with Peter. Stiles is pretty sure he's ridden Peter at least once or twice, but as he thinks back to those memories, he's fairly confident that it had been _Peter_ who actually manhandled him into that position and been in control still... Stiles holding himself up for Peter to jackhammer into him hard and fast from below, or Peter's hands lifting his hips up. Stiles doesn't want that this time and he believes Peter is also on the same page. It's exhilarating.

Stiles hadn't dimmed the lights to set any certain mood (lame). It's just always felt weird to be going through the 'ole bedroom rodeo with artificial lights blaring brightly - like daylight is fine, but if there's the option of the lights to be low or off, Stiles prefers that. Besides, Peter can see fine and if it is does happen to be pitch dark he's pretty sure that Peter wouldn't let himself get accidentally maimed or impaled on anything in the room (other than on Peter's dick).

His snark could have got him a spank ( _oh no_!), but what it _does_ get Stiles is a nice bum squeeze which is fine with him. Apparently Stiles' incorrect age estimation has stuck with Peter (which pleases Stiles). 

"No going over hills," Stiles comments distractedly because he's easing himself up on his knees and uncapping the lube. Stretching himself quickly but efficiently is of more importance to him. Stiles squeezes out ample lube to coat a few fingers before he reaches back to find his hole with a questing digit.

He's staring down at Peter as he pushes just the tip of his index finger inside with a small gasp. Stiles is still staring down at Peter as he pulls his finger out before pressing it back in and beginning to fuck himself, getting adjusted to the feeling. Stretching himself sometimes feels like a necessary evil because it's important to be patient and sometimes when you want the D, being patient sucks. But with Peter's eyes intently focused on him, Stiles doesn't mind it.

* * *

_'No going over hills.'_

"I don't plan on it," Peter says, but neither of them really pay attention to his response. He certainly doesn't care. Not when Stiles moves the way he does - lifting himself up on his knees, uncapping the lube, and then reaching back with a slick finger. Peter watches intently, because while he'd suspected that this was Stiles' plan, there's something wholly different in actually _seeing_ him do it. Peter's eyes darken a little, and despite having come relatively recently (recent enough for Stiles' voice to still carry a slight rasp) Peter feels heat begin to gather low again. He hadn't been lying. Getting hard again will be no problem.

Especially not when Stiles is putting on such a blatant show for him. There's nothing but heat and hunger and intensity in Peter's eyes as he watches Stiles' wrist flex. He can't see Stiles' finger pressing inside of himself, can't _feel_ the tight clench around his own finger, but he can imagine how it feels. He's done it often enough - fucked Stiles open on his fingers, or teased him practically into tears with slow, agonizing thrusts aimed to get Stiles begging. While this isn't exactly following the same model, Peter doesn't feel cheated. Just watching Stiles like this is impossibly arousing.

"I don't think I'll ever get tired of seeing how you look when you're being fucked," Peter's voice is smooth as he squeezes Stiles' ass a little tighter, pulling the cheek to one side to make it easier for Stiles' finger to press in. Peter can feel the shifting of his skin and it's thrilling. "Even if I'm not the one doing it right now. You look utterly debauched..." 

The praise is smooth and hot, and as Peter takes in every shift in Stiles' expression, as he touches Stiles' skin and pulls his other hand out from behind his head in order to trail it slowly over Stiles' bared chest and abdomen, Peter feels his cock filling out quickly. The thought of Stiles wanting to ride him slow is enticing, even if Peter suspects that he'll wind up fucking up into Stiles before too long. Stiles always gets deliciously weak in the knees when he's being fucked.

* * *

Stretching may be a necessary evil, but what it leads up to is always worth the time and energy expenditure. Of course, Stiles enjoys doing the fucking too, but he's only ever had penetrative sex with females and with vaginas. He imagines he'd like doing someone in the butt too - can't see why he wouldn't - he just hasn't had the opportunity come up. Stiles doesn't think Peter would be too eager to take it up the ass with him anyway. Besides Stiles isn't dissatisfied with their arrangement. It works for him. (Maybe later?)

Stiles is always amazed how his body goes back to normal after having Peter's dick all up in him fucking his brains out. Then again, that had been _weeks_ ago. Around his finger is tightness, gloopy lube and heat, but steadily Stiles feels himself begin to relax. Being aroused to begin with and having Peter's devout attention definitely helps. Stiles is half grinning as Peter gives his velvety praise. He can feel Peter's hand cup an asscheek and pull it to the side and it does make it easier to finger himself.

But Stiles can't think of anything clever to say so he simply gives Peter a coy wink and slides another finger inside. Peter's other hand touches his torso and after his eyes flick downward, Stiles can see that Peter is getting hard again. 

"Impressive," Stiles comments, the smile both seen and heard. "Just what I like to see." He's breathing deeply as he beings to fuck himself faster. It's the damn angle that gets to him, but Stiles preserves. 

Biting down on his bottom lip, Stiles lowers himself down, his chest resting against Peter's own. Stiles tucks his face against Peter's neck, with a groan. Oh, he fully knows that Peter doesn't especially like anyone being at his neck, but given what Stiles is doing and why, he's pretty sure Peter will allow it. 

"Gonna ride you, gonna ride you," Stiles breathes.

* * *

Stiles isn't cutting any corners. He's going for it wholeheartedly, his wrist moving quickly as he fucks his fingers into his hole. Peter can't see it, but he can hear it, can scent the arousal on the air, and it's perfect. Oh, there's a part of him that wants to take charge, to wrench Stiles' fingers free and replace them with his own. The thought alone of sliding his fingers deep into Stiles' body and fucking him until he's whining is enough to make his dick throb, but this is thrilling enough on its own. Later, maybe, Peter will take over, will flip them over and fuck Stiles hard enough that he feels it for the next week, but for now, Peter's willing to drink this moment in.

Then Stiles leans down. Peter stills, curious, but when Stiles leans down enough to rest against Peter's chest, he quickly understands. Keeping his hand on Stiles' ass to give him room to fuck his fingers deeply into himself, Peter rolls his hips up slowly. There's a time and a place for hard rutting and Stiles squirming, but right now isn't the time. Peter reaches around him instead, moving to grab Stiles' other asscheek in his other hand... when Stiles leans in and presses his face to Peter's throat.

Peter _doesn't_ like anyone near this throat. Given the fact that he'd had it torn out of him once before, he feels that concern is justified. But when Stiles is laying against him, Stiles' dick rubbing hard and hot against Peter's abdomen, and his fingers buried deep in his own ass, it's a little hard to make that connection. Peter does growl though, a low sound that rumbles through his chest like a living thing. 

It speaks of threat, of danger, of the sharp edge that Stiles is walking by being where he is, but Stiles' voice - breathless and desperate - tempers the edge to Peter's growl. A different heat slides through him, arousal thrumming under his skin. Peter breathes out a soft sound, a hum of affirmation, and grinds slowly up against Stiles' skin, encouraging.

"Yes, that _is_ the general idea. Come on, then. Just a little deeper. Give your fingers a good curl, Stiles. Let me hear you."

* * *

Peter isn't known for his unending patience - unless Peter is being sadistic and being a ruthless teasing jerkface, that is. So Stiles _is_ a little surprised that Peter hasn't actually taken over on the fingering frontier. Stiles knows that he certainly wouldn't mind if that happened; Peter would make it good. Because right now _he's_ in control and Peter is underneath him, totally engaged, getting hard and ready to fuck him. It's awesome and Stiles' stretching himself open is leading to great things. 

Peter's other hand moves and now both of Stiles' asscheeks are spread apart. Immediately Stiles trembles. Despite neither one of them being able to see it, he's exposed and it's kind of hot to think about. He for sure likes it. It feels kind of dirty without being over the top. Something like that. Besides, it does help Stiles with his task. (Although he can't help but be curious about the image that they're making.)

The growl from Peter is heard - it's even felt against his own skin - but Stiles knows that there is no threat coming his way. Peter isn't going to throw him off with a snarl. Peter isn't going to get all pissy. What Peter does is push against him and the skin-on-skin contact - all the nakedness - is actually rather nice.

It's then that Peter goads him to go for his prostate. Not unexpected by any means. 

"You can already hear me," Stiles points out just to be a little shit. 

Hearing him will never be a problem because of Peter's kickass senses, but Stiles knows what Peter is after. Stiles doesn't comply immediately, simply thrusting his fingers in and out (and a little deeper), but it's not long before he does just as Peter has instructed: Stiles curls his fingers. His body jerks at the frisson of pleasure that shoots through him, but all that's heard is a muffled groan as Stiles' mouth smooshes against Peter's throat. He does repeat the action one more time.

* * *

Peter _could_ take over. By rights, he probably should. Though it's somewhat understandable that Stiles doesn't seem inclined to let him, because Peter _would_ tease him if given the chance. He still considers it, still glances at Stiles and feels the way that Stiles' body moves as he fucks himself with his fingers. He imagines doing the same to Stiles with him just like this, his own fingers ruthless and curling and pushing Stiles close enough to make those delicious little sounds that he makes when he's getting too much, too fast. Peter wets his lips at the thought, but this pointed show that Stiles is putting on is _just_ as satisfying to him, even with Stiles' snark.

But Peter can be patient if he needs to be and he is now. Stiles takes some time to do what Peter had told him to, but when he does, the little groan he makes is hot. Peter's eyes narrow in his own satisfaction and he allows himself a small smirk as Stiles trembles and jerks against him. It's visceral in a way that nothing else is, watching someone else move involuntarily due to intense pleasure, and the desire to flip Stiles over and fuck him properly _is_ there under Peter's skin. 

Stiles had been so good, so obedient though. He'd gagged himself on Peter's dick, had let Peter come down his throat, and he hadn't complained or tried to talk Peter out of it. He'd let himself get filthy in an alleyway, and really, even if Peter _were_ being unreasonable, that does deserve a reward. So as Stiles tucks his face against Peter's throat and fucks himself with his fingers, Peter hums a low, satisfied sound and presses his lips to Stiles' bare shoulder.

He scrapes his teeth over the skin, mouthing not-quite-kisses up the way to Stiles' neck. Each one is mostly teeth and suction, leaving a small trail of faded bites behind, but Peter's beginning to think that he'd be perfectly happy to bite Stiles raw just to see the marks later.

"You know," he says conversationally, "if the angle is awkward, I _could_ always do it for you. But I must say, there is something to be said for feeling you tremble against me."

* * *

Stiles hadn't been lying when he explained that doing ass-stuff was still relatively new to him - at least newer than getting off the tried and true way of stroking the salami. Stiles has had years of regular masturbation compared to his half a year or so of fingering and prostate play. Stiles likes it, it's just difficult to relax and do it himself (which is where Peter obviously helps).

Brushing against his prostate feels good, but it's almost too intense (as evident by Stiles' reactions). It gets him squirmy and amped and right now Stiles doesn't want to get to the point where he's going to crack and beg Peter to just fuck him hard and fast. That's usually their forte, but not tonight. Tonight Stiles has different plans and he's already shared these plans with Peter. He's going to continue to get what he wants because it also happens to be what Peter wants. 

Doing this while on top of Peter, with Peter's hands spreading him open, definitely adds some spice. It's more engaging than doing it by himself. Peter's body heat and little pleased sounds, his mouth over his skin, it all adds to the moment. Stiles feels both light and airy but grounded and when Peter's comment comes, Stiles just rolls his eyes before licking up at Peter's neck. 

"I know you would," he murmurs back. Another finger is carefully pressed in with a gasp. "But I know you'll wait."

And wait they do as Stiles continues to stretch himself with three fingers, the tightness steadily easing. Stiles makes the executive decision when he's done, sliding his fingers out with a breathy exhale as he leans back up. He takes the excess lube and wipes it on Peter's cock, stroking and ensuring that Peter is hard enough. 

"You ready?" Rhetorical question of course, but Stiles wants an answer, his hand moving lazily over Peter's slick cock.

* * *

Peter doesn't particularly _want_ to wait, but he knows that he will. He could reach back and wrench Stiles' fingers free of his hole and then delight in stretching Stiles open on his fingers himself, but there's definitely something to be said for watching Stiles do this to himself. He's reactive even if he doesn't go for his prostate often (which, admittedly, is Peter's favorite thing to do, as Stiles gets so _sensitive)_ and listening to each soft sound and each slick slide of skin over skin is teasing in its own right. It doesn't stop Peter from wanting to flip Stiles over and do this himself, but it does stop him from acting on that desire.

He's patient as Stiles stretches his hole. Peter breathes in, drinking in the scent of arousal and _Stiles._ Each sound that escapes Stiles is technically muffled against Peter's throat, but he can still hear them just fine. And, really, regardless of the irritation that Stiles had put him through that evening, this is _hot_. Stiles is hot. Peter feels arousal flushing through his own system, feels his cock harden and bump up against Stiles' hip every time he moves.

So when Stiles _finally_ draws back and his hand goes almost immediately to Peter's cock, Peter lets out a tight sigh and rolls his hips up into the tunnel of Stiles' slick grip. The touch has his dick throbbing, and if Stiles weren't so close to sitting on his cock properly, the little rhetorical quip might have been enough for Peter to knock him off the bed out of spite. He doesn't; he _does_ actually want to fuck Stiles, especially after so long without it. But that doesn't mean that he can't be sarcastic.

"No," Peter drawls, rolling his eyes, "watching you fuck yourself on your fingers and grinding up against you did absolutely _nothing_ for me." Peter shakes his head, and then gives Stiles' ass a final squeeze with both hands. Then he slides them away, but not without a small swat to one of Stiles' cheeks. Just because he can. 

" _Yes_ , Stiles. I am _very_ ready. So ready, in fact, that if you don't move soon, I'll move you myself."

* * *

Peter's cock is hard, full and hot in his hand. It's rather obvious that Peter is ready and wants him - but that doesn't mean that Stiles needs to rush. He'd been impatient and had gone out after Peter's initial rejection, but now that Stiles has him - now that Peter had chosen and come to him - he's enjoying every single second of their time together. Peter had seen fit to deny them over these last two weeks anyway. There's no good reason to hurry and have things end soon.

Sarcasm, an eye roll, a spank - all of these actions are familiar responses from Peter. Stiles wouldn't expect anything else. And that not-so-little threat tagged on the end? Yeah, Stiles isn't surprised by that either. If anything, his eyes light up, his lips pulling into a grin. He lives for this. 

"That's what I like to hear," Stiles replies truthfully, giving one last stroke to Peter's cock. 

There's really no elegant way of sitting on someone's dick. Stiles makes the necessary adjustments, a hand reaching between his legs to hold Peter's cock still as he positions himself over it. Eye contact is sought out as Stiles lowers himself down. He doesn't teasingly rub the tip of Peter's dick against his eager hole nor does he move hastily. 

What Stiles does is gingerly sink down on Peter's cock. A small grimace can be seen on his face as he works the thickest part inside, but once the head is past, it's easier to continue taking inch by inch. Stile's eyes don't leave Peter's own as hands come to rest on Peter's chest, fingers splaying. He bottoms out with a breathy moan.

"Much better," Stiles says in between deeper breaths as he adjusts to the fullness of Peter inside of him.

* * *

Seeing Stiles' eyes light up and seeing the smile that steals almost slyly across his lips, Peter can't quite help the one he offers Stiles in response. It's a little like a pact, the knowledge that they both enjoy impatience and threats to a degree. They both like to push, and as Stiles strokes Peter's cock, Peter does consider pulling him in for... something. 

Another mark, a biting kiss, something to punctuate his satisfaction at Stiles' enjoyment of his control. But he doesn't, because before he can decide just which part of Stiles' skin he wants to mark up, Stiles is shuffling up onto his knees and moving closer. Peter's eyes darken a little in arousal and expectation.

He lets Stiles do this part, though he knows he could easily do it himself. But in a sense, it's interesting to watch _Stiles_ work for what he wants. Peter can surprise him, can fuck up into him, can push him beyond where he'd normally feel comfortable, but seeing Stiles work so hard for his cock is thrilling. Peter watches as Stiles lines himself up, feels the kiss of hot skin against the head of his cock, and when Stiles begins to slowly lower himself down, Peter glances up and pauses, because Stiles is looking right at him. 

There's a small surge of something else, something _hot_ in Peter's chest at the eye contact, because it's daring. Typically people with a continued wish to live don't voluntarily make eye contact with a werewolf, but recently, Stiles has fallen into the habit and Peter likes it. He switches his focus, meeting the unspoken challenge, and he watches each slow shift of Stiles' expression, from discomfort to intensity, as Stiles lowers himself down on Peter's cock. It's slow going, and it's intense. Peter feels the tight, hot grip of Stiles' body, and not even he can stay fully quiet when the head of his cock slides into Stiles' body. It's sudden heat and gripping tightness but he makes himself stay still.

Stiles takes his time, and when he bottoms out, Peter groans low in his throat, feeling every inch of his dick snug and hot in Stiles' body. Peter reaches up without bothering to ask, and as Stiles shudders and struggles to adjust, Peter pets along his arms, down Stiles' chest, all the way down to Stiles' cock. He wraps his hand around it without breaking eye contact and begins to stroke, slower, lighter, just enough to take the edge off, to tease.

"Take your time," Peter breathes back, twisting his hand languidly. "You've been on edge for _quite_ some time now."

* * *

Having a dick up inside your ass always feels weird - at least initially. Stiles has lost count of how many times Peter has actually fucked him, but each and every time is still intense and slightly different than the time before. This time, Peter isn't taking control of the moment and they both know it. They also know that Peter could easily and effortlessly change shit up if he wanted. But he hasn't and Stiles really does appreciate the chance to go at his own pace (and be in control). 

Once Stiles is stuffed with Peter's cock, Peter _still_ doesn't take the reins back and attempt to lift him off to only have him fuck back down. A little variance never hurt anyone, right? Right. As much as Stiles _does_ definitely enjoy their usual frantic roll in the hay, why not shake things up? Why not deviate?

Peter's touch along his body is gentle, almost comforting, but it doesn't strike Stiles as strange. A breathy groan follows as Peter's touch ends up at Stiles' cock, however. Peter's fingers are sure, the touch adding a nice, familiar wash of pleasure on the already intense sensation as Peter strokes. Stiles licks his lips, exhaling slowly as he takes in all the sensations. 

"I _have_ been on edge for quite some time now," Stiles agrees before rolling his hips and purposely clenching around Peter's cock. It feels good like this, his body wired and ready for more, but Stiles in no rush to well, rush. He wants to draw this out. He wants to enjoy this.

He continues to gaze down at Peter. After a considering second, there's nothing said as Stiles lifts himself up before grinding back down with a gasp. "Tell me you like it," Stiles suddenly grits out.

* * *

It's the slow clench around Peter's cock that briefly steals the breath from his lungs. Yes, he'd gotten to come down Stiles' throat back in the alleyway, and it hasn't exactly been a long time since then, but some days Peter swears that Stiles had been _made_ for this. For him. Ever since that first time - the first moment that he'd sunk into Stiles' clenching, tight heat and listened to him gasp and beg - Peter's felt a little like an addict. 

He might not call Stiles over every night, or go to him every night, but Stiles is like an itch that Peter can't scratch when he's not there. So like this, feeling that perfect clench around his cock, feeling the way that Stiles' muscles tighten the way he likes, Peter feels a shiver trip down his spine, feels his pulse skip. 

But even that pales to the way that Stiles lifts himself up and then grinds back down. Stiles' gasp breaks the air, but Peter groans in the back of his throat, a tighter sound. Oh, he'd fuck Stiles _properly_ in a heartbeat, but there's something very satisfying about watching Stiles take his own pleasure. About watching Stiles control his pace and work so damn hard for Peter's dick. It's a boost to the ego, but more than that, it's tactile and intense. It feels _good_.

So when Stiles tells him to admit that he likes it, Peter meets his eyes again, expression bordering somewhere between amused and incredulous. 

"I think it's pretty evident how much I like it." To punctuate this - because he can, and because Peter will _always_ push Stiles whenever he can - he slides his hand away from Stiles' cock and then rolls his hips upwards in a slow grind. He still intends for Stiles to work for it, but a little push now and then never hurt anyone. 

"But if you need it said... yes, Stiles. I like it. I like seeing just how _badly_ you want me."

* * *

It's obvious that Peter likes this. Wet heat wrapped around your dick? Who wouldn't fucking love that? Stiles sure does. A hand? A mouth? A pussy? All very welcome. So yeah, Stiles knows it, but Stiles wants to _hear_ Peter say it. He wants Peter to make the conscious decision to admit it _and_ to give him what he wants. Stiles doesn't really understand _why_ it's important to him, but it is.

Peter doesn't immediately answer him, giving him a considering look. Stiles doesn't back down. He doesn't say anything else or do anything to attempt to detract from what he's asked for. Stiles owns it. He stares back at Peter, unbothered that he's asked for this and unbothered that he's not going to back down on it. Peter's answer is both vocal and physical because that slow undulation of his hips is heaven and Stiles' nails scratch at Peter's chest. 

His eyes widen when Peter finally delivers and the words are a caress of their own. _Yes, of course Peter likes_ _it._ A smile forms on Stiles' mouth as he decides to lean forward and drape himself on Peter's chest. Stiles doesn't _need_ to rest, but he wants the skin-on-skin contact and he's not going to deny him - them - it. His forearms rest on either side of Peter's head as he crowds close, his mouth hovering near one of Peter's ears. 

"Yeah, you do," Stiles whispers hotly as he rolls his hips, Peter's cock shifting in deep and perfect. "And how badly do you think _I_ want you, huh?"

* * *

The slow roll of Peter's hips is perfect, but it has nothing on the added bonus of Stiles' nails scratching sharply across his chest. The feeling of it has Peter shifting, has him arching his chest into the lovely sting. Stiles doesn't often scratch at him or try to leave marks, though that's usually because Peter has him face down on the bed as he fucks Stiles senseless. The drag of nails is an added bonus.

But when Stiles smiles - when his scent shifts ever so slightly, but not enough for Peter to care about - and then leans down to drape himself over Peter's chest, he hisses a breath between his teeth, his cock throbbing as Stiles clenches and shifts on top of him. It's a slow shift, and then a delicious press of skin against skin. Stiles leans in to whisper into his ear and when Stiles rolls his hips, Peter can't pretend that the sensation isn't delicious. He groans softly, the urge to snap his hips up burning in his chest, but he doesn't do it. Instead, listening to Stiles' coaxing, Peter wets his lips and makes a quick decision.

" _Badly_ ," Peter growls, leaning in to drag his teeth quick and sharp over the meat of Stiles' shoulder. "Enough that if I were to pin you down right now and fuck you to tears, you'd _still_ ask me for more." 

Peter reaches up and winds an arm around Stiles, sudden and tight. Then, making sure to keep Stiles' chest pressed against his own, Peter shifts and braces them both as he reaches back and sits up. Oh, he wants this, wants the feeling of Stiles pressed against him and working for his cock, but he _also_ wants a little more leverage, and for Stiles' hands to stay free. If they're doing this, Peter wants to feel the bite of Stiles' nails, wants to push him into more. 

Challenge is the name of their game after all.

* * *

This night is different for a number of reasons. For one, Stiles finally has marks from Peter that aren't so easily hidden and therefore will be seen. Next, in order to get those marks, Stiles had more or less antagonized Peter into coming to find him - _after_ Peter had lied to him. Yes, it still irks Stiles, but right now he doesn't care to make a big deal out of it. Besides, the important thing is that Peter _had_ come to him and isn't that more rewarding in the end compared with Peter saying yes to begin with? (Yes.)

Teeth find his shoulder and Stiles is vindicated. It's a heady feeling to hear that Peter likes this (likes him). He wants to balk at the idea that he ever _cries_ from sex, but he knows that things can get pretty intense and desperate. After all, Peter is right - Stiles _would_ definitelyask for more. While he's always been satisfied by Peter, there seems to be an aspect of _more_ that pounds in Stiles' skull like a war drum. _More, more, more..._

Without any warning, Peter decides to move. Stiles tenses, his arms immediately wrapping around Peter's neck for support (which is unneeded because Peter doesn't let him fall). Peter sits them up but Stiles still stays secure, Peter's cock nestled inside of him. His knees are on either side of Peter's hips and Stiles lets out a soft chuckle because like this Peter has more leverage in this position. It's no real surprise that Peter has done this. Stiles rocks forward a little and then backward, taking in the new angle. 

His own cock is still hard, but Stiles isn't reaching down or encouraging Peter to touch him again. What Stiles does is rest his forehead against Peter's as he lifts himself up a few inches before sitting back down on Peter's cock. 

"I do want more, Peter," Stiles murmurs, hushed. "More of you... more of this." His fingers uncurl and Stiles' half bitten off fingernails dig into Peter's shoulder blades. 

* * *

Stiles had already been seated fully on Peter's cock when he'd sat up, but just the simple act of sitting up and letting Stiles lean back is enough to make his muscles clench so damn perfectly around Peter's cock. It's sudden and rippling and intense, and it has a low sigh of pleasure escaping Peter's lips as his cock sinks impossibly deep into Stiles' body. Peter bites back the urge he has _to_ bite, to bury his face against Stiles' throat and work his neck so raw that it'll be weeks before he heals. 

Before he can give in, Stiles' arms loop around his neck and suddenly he's closer. Stiles' forehead presses against Peter's own, and while Peter's not normally a fan of being quite this close, there's a sudden shift of intensity, a sharpness that all but cuts across his skin. Stiles rolls his hips slowly and then lifts himself up, and Peter slides his hands down in order to hold Stiles' hips. He _could_ just take over, and he's tempted, but feeling the tension in Stiles' hips, feeling the shift of muscle and the heat in Stiles' eyes as he fucks himself slowly down on Peter's cock, it's _just_ intense enough to get that urge to die.

Peter only touches instead. He strokes his thumbs over Stiles' hip bones, then slides his hands back to squeeze his ass appreciatively. And, as Stiles pushes himself back again, Peter spreads his cheeks and when it results in a deeper thrust, Peter groans softly and pulls him down just a bit harder, _just_ so he can grind up and change the angle slightly. 

"If you want more, then _take_ it," Peter growls, his voice pure temptation. "Come on, Stiles. Show me."

* * *

If Stiles knew about Peter's urge to really bite him, he'd likely egg Peter on. This is the pattern they've entered into. A bite... Would it be with fangs or just human teeth but harder - harder to point of bleeding maybe? Stiles wonders if there are any possible side effects if he comes in contact with a werewolf's fangs when not in a life-threatening kind of way? Questions for later because Stiles doesn't want to ask now. His mind and body are completely enthralled with Peter, with the heat and pressure and the feel of skin-against-skin - of them both being naked.

While nothing can really compare to the intensity of Peter pinning him to the bed and fucking him into the mattress, this is still amazing. It's just amazing in a different sort of way. Everything that's happened tonight, all the back and forth jibes over text and the waiting and the game, it's all been worth it. He's got a slew of profound hickeys from Peter and he actually got Peter to whip out his dick beside a dumpster. That shit is pretty crazy and it's _him_ who had caused it to happen.

Peter's hands are sure, the touch only encouraging Stiles more as Peter once again spreads him open and guides him down harder. This time it's Stiles who gasps and shudders as his hands slide around Peter's back as if unable to keep them still. It's the provocation that has Stiles feeling a delightful twist of something within his chest. 

" _Take it_ ," Stiles echoes as he lifts himself off slowly before slamming back down, the skin slapping sound obscene. " _Show me_ ," he breathes out in pleasure, still echoing Peter's commands. "So bossy Peter, but _we_ like it." 

Stiles' eyelids close as he begins slowly lifting off and fucking himself down hard on Peter's cock. 

* * *

The tight clench of silken skin around Peter's cock is like a vice. It's all wet, hot heat that curls through him like pure sin. Stiles feels like an indulgence like this. He always feels like a treat when Peter has him pinned and crying out desperately but this is more subtle. Each slow lift of Stiles' hips is a delicious promise but the hard slam back has a snarl threatening in Peter's throat. He thinks in that moment - as Stiles lifts himself up again slow enough to tease - that he could easily sink his fangs into Stiles' skin and fuck him properly, like an animal. 

But before the thoughts can become anything other than idle musings, Stiles begins to speak. There's something in the voice that niggles at the back of Peter's mind like a phantom itch but he thinks nothing of it as Stiles fucks himself in deliciously slow movements back on his cock. Peter grips at his ass harder, growing his approval. 

And then the words register. Or rather... the _word_. The singular word that implies more than a singular inhabitant. 

Peter's gaze snaps up immediately but Stiles' eyes are closed in bliss. A sharp, wary look crosses Peter's face but he very quickly schools it into something calculating. And before Stiles can lift up again, one of Peter's hands leaves Stiles' ass and his fingers instead move to grab into Stiles' hair. Peter tugs sharply with a low growl, his eyes glinting bright blue. 

"I didn't tell you that you could close your eyes, Stiles," Peter growls. "Look at me. You wanted to ride me nice and slow? I'm going to watch you do just that. I want to see that desperation in your eyes and I'm going to remember it the next time I have you face down on my bed."

* * *

_We like it._ Yes, _we._

 _Hello._ Oh, there's a part of Stiles that knows what he's just said and admitted to - what he's essentially dangled out for Peter to snap at. This part of Stiles isn't the everyday Stiles who is afraid of lingering darkness and riddled with guilt. No, this part of Stiles is something _other,_ the remnants of a crumbled trickster spirit mixing with Stiles' own consciousness, a shade pressed into the cracks of his mind _._ It's _still_ Stiles - at least that's who he thinks of himself as - but do names really matter? He doesn't think so. He's Stiles. He has Stiles' memories. He just happens to have a few other things going, too.

A hand shoots to his hair, fingers gripping tightly and Stiles grunts as his head is sharply yanked back. Stiles can _feel_ the glow of Peter's supernatural blue eyes and Peter's growled comments-slash-commands are cunning. Peter once again proves that he has no interest in remaining some submissive partner here, but more than that, Peter wants to see his eyes so he can check on a certain "something." Wonderful, that means Peter definitely hadn't missed his little flare a few weeks ago. And this Stiles knows that Peter had been wary and avoiding him. Other-Stiles hadn't liked it and he hadn't either.

Time to see what Peter's next move will be...

Stiles' eyelids creep open and his irises are sheen black. Nothing else has changed in his appearance, but Stiles imagines that he may smell or feel slightly different because power and knowledge do add a certain scent. His hand lifts to the one that Peter has in his hair and Stiles' grips Peter's wrist tightly and purposely pulls to get Peter to pull his hair. The slight pain lights up over his scalp and Stiles' mouth is smiling as he continues to lift himself up before sitting back down on Peter's cock. His movements are similar from before, but there's definitely a lack of growing human exhaustion to his actions.

"Oh, hello, Peter," Stiles says.

* * *

Peter knows how to employ stealth when he needs to. Oh, he's sure that if there _is_ something in Stiles that it'll know exactly what he's doing, but his phrasing won't tell Stiles anything. Stiles Stilinski, that is. Not whatever _else_ might be holed up in there. Peter's not convinced that there _is_ something there, but he's not going to be an idiot. He knows how to play the game. 

His fingers curl sharply in Stiles' hair, sharp enough to tug _hard_ and Peter watches closely, breathing in the scent on the air. He doesn't know what he's looking for (and it _is_ slightly difficult to properly concentrate with Stiles fucking himself back on Peter's cock so perfectly) but when it finally happens, it all slots into place.

The tension in Stiles' body suddenly shifts, his center of gravity easing. It wouldn't be enough to notice, except Stiles is on Peter right now and Peter feels the strength shift from Stiles' hands to his core. And then there's the scent, the sudden change in chemosignals. Yet it _is_ still strange, because despite the sudden addition of power and silky satisfaction on the air, the scent is still _just_ Stiles enough to not get Peter's hackles rising. 

But when 'Stiles' opens his eyes, he seriously questions his own instincts. As when Stiles opens his eyes, his irises are glossy, deep, fathomless black, surrounding Stiles' pupils in a way that almost make them look grey by comparison. 

Peter's hand freezes, but he doesn't let go. So he watches, wary, as Stiles reaches back and grips Peter's wrist. The squeeze is sharp and impossible, but not deadly, and Peter complies as Stiles forces him to pull harder in his hair. There isn't a single part of Peter that isn't on guard right now, but the rhythmic movements of Stiles - or not-Stiles - fucking himself back on Peter's cock still do feel amazing. 

"I'm sure you'll forgive a few cursory questions," Peter says without pause, and despite the tight clench around his cock, he does sound almost conversational. "Is Stiles still there? Assuming you're separate. And is he all right? Or even aware of this?"

* * *

Peter Hale. Werewolf. Born as a Beta, once an Alpha (and a niece-killer at that), but now back to being a Beta on the outskirts of Scott's mishmash of a pack. Conniving, self-serving, but not as self-serving as some may think. Distrustful. Vain. The list is long, but Peter is also sharp. He's capable. He's determined and he's a survivor. Stiles likes these qualities because Stiles happens to be a survivor too.

While he's nowhere near as strong as the nogitsune, there's residual power residing in other-Stiles that _this_ Stiles can tap into. His movements are more fluid and sure. There's no growing fatigue at the position, it's just Stiles lifting himself up and sliding some of Peter's cock out of him before slapping himself back down. Stiles is equally engaged in the fucking and the impending possible confrontation. Is he hoping for a conflict? No, not really. Chaos is no longer the name of the game because he _isn't_ the nogitsune and he understands that chaos isn't sustainable. 

Cursory questions sound potentially tedious, but Stiles had known he would be fielding some. He's come out to play and flashed his own different colored eyes - basically an invitation for questions.

"Oh, he's around," Stiles answers after slamming himself back down and clenching around Peter's cock. Stiles licks his lips, enjoying the heat and hardness. "He's perfectly safe and perfectly in the dark - his choice, not mine." 

It seems important to point that out. _He's_ not some villain here.

* * *

The movement is _very_ distracting. In the time it takes for Stiles to lift himself up and then slam his hips back down, Peter considers grabbing him and pulling him away, but it's a very fine line to walk. He _knows_ that it had been Stiles who had asked him for this, because Peter had noticed the change in the air when this other side had shown itself. It's important to note that there is a marked shift between one and the other, but it's also important to note that Stiles had wanted this. Peter doubts that Stiles had wanted _this_ part of it, but weighing the pros and cons of the moment, this seems safer.

Peter needs information, _without_ risking his life and, preferably, without risking Stiles'. If this _thing_ is dangerous, then keeping it content is important. Maybe this is unconventional, maybe it's downright skirting the line of consent, but he thinks Stiles will forgive him. 

So Peter doesn't stop this... thing - this _shade -_ as Stiles fucks himself back on Peter's cock. The issue is that Stiles' muscles are no longer weak or tired; every slam of his hips has Peter's cock enveloped in tight, searing heat, and that slow clench around the base of Peter's cock has an involuntary groan strangling itself in his throat. Peter's grip tightens but he doesn't move, doesn't rock his hips up even if the desire is there. Instead he focuses himself, breathing slower and deeper as though to maintain his control properly. In reality, it's to keep his pulse steady. Just in case.

"I see. And what is it that _you_ want, then? Aside from the obvious," Peter adds with a quick cut of a smirk. He's not the type of man to play with his cards on the table. Peter plays with hidden aces. "I take it that you're _not_ the nogitsune. Different smell."

* * *

Stiles likes Peter - _both_ Stiles' do. When he's not in the driver's seat (which is most of the time) there is still some thread of him that exists, a heartbeat overlapping regular 'ole Stiles'. He's still listening, still watching. Darkness leaves a scar. _He_ just happens to be that scar. He's some fragment of Stiles' psyche that connected to the nogitsune and developed after climbing out of bandages. 

But he's a shadow that the everyday Stiles is hiding from. Stiles doesn't want to deal with this open door, so _he_ doesn't force anything. He doesn't _need_ to force anything.

Stiles wonders just how much of Peter's concern about _other-Stiles_ is simply hinging on Peter needing to figure out the potential threat value for _himself_. It makes sense. Survival is the name of the game and Stiles understands it. 

He doesn't stop moving. Peter doesn't try to stop him either. Why shouldn't they be enjoying themselves as they have a little conversation? The slap of skin is delightful and knowing that Peter is struggling to _not_ move or take control back is also rather fun. Stiles lets his head loll back in enjoyment as he rises and falls back down on Peter's cock. When he's tapped into the lingering power, there isn't any risk of strain and he intends to fully ride that wave (as well as Peter's dick). 

The question isn't shocking or outlandish. It's exactly the kind of question that Stiles would expect from Peter. 

"Oh, not the nogitsune," Stiles confirms and he stops blatantly fucking himself on Pete'rs cock. Instead, he just rolls his hips in circular motions as he comes to gaze at Peter, his own dark eyes looking into Peter's bright blue ones. Stiles' lets his fingertips lightly trail down the planes of Peter's back like an insect skittering across skin. 

"Besides a bit o' fun and games? I want Stiles to stop running from his shadows. He'll never be okay unless he accepts us." Stiles gives Peter a considering look before he decides to elaborate. "He won't remember this - he never does - but not because I don't allow him, but because he doesn't _want_ to."

* * *

Peter isn't the type of man to subscribe to the notion of trusting gut instinct above all else, but as Stiles fucks himself back on Peter's cock with gusto, he finds himself somewhat distracted by one thing in particular: his own instincts. Yes, this is definitely a dangerous situation with a slew of unknown variables but as Peter gazes up at Stiles and really takes in the black to his eyes, his instincts aren't sending out warning signals. Peter does remember the nogitsune, does remember the unease he'd felt in his instincts at that time. Yet as he sits there with Stiles fucking himself back on his cock, the feeling is different. Altered. 

It means that when Stiles slows his thrusts down to a rock of his hips - a circular grind that has Peter hissing a breath out between his teeth as he struggles to keep himself mostly in check - and Stiles answers him, Peter is oddly inclined to believe him.

Peter knows what _threat_ smells like. What it _feels_ like on the air. Yet the scent beyond the sex is something darker but almost playful. Amused, goading, and satisfied, but not dark with anger or bitterness or fear. Peter's not reckless enough to believe that everything is fine by his own judgment alone, but it _does_ give him something extra to think about as he grips Stiles a little closer and nods thoughtfully.

"Duly noted. Trauma _does_ do odd things to one's ability to reconcile different parts of themselves. But I'll keep that in mind. I assume that you're telling _me_ for a reason," Peter adds, his voice just a little tighter. Stiles seems perfectly capable of riding him without end, but despite the severity of the moment, this _does_ feel wonderful. It's difficult to separate pleasure from practicality. 

"Will this just be a blackout to him? Because that's not likely to end well for either of us."

* * *

Stiles isn't going to reveal his entire hand here. Oh no no no, he's not an idiot. He's offered Peter a rather large insight here anyway. He's taken a risk. There's a chance that this could backfire, that Peter could take it badly, but Stiles is counting on that _not_ being the case. After all, Peter isn't one to shy away from unpleasantness and he isn't close to any of Stiles' friends. Stiles very much doubts that the werewolf will go call _nogitsune!_ to anyone else. Peter will keep his secret and likely do a little research which only helps his cause.

Peter may be curious and wary but he's still hard. All these states are manageable. Stiles knows what he is. Peter is merely playing twenty questions to unveil the mystery and who doesn't like the thrill of figuring out a good mystery?

Stiles is having fun. It's fun finally being acknowledged and it's fun feeling so awake and strung out on lust and sex. He wants to play with Peter _more_ , but Stiles knows their time is drawing to a close. Peter's insight about _trauma_ adds a sour note to this whole exchange, but Peter is right. Other-Stiles is traumatized and not willing to be more receptive to the truth. But revealing himself to Peter is a step in the right direction. That's what Stiles is hoping for anyway. 

"The longer I'm present, the more jarring the blackout," he explains with a shrug. So far they've not been anything major and he's hoping to keep it that way. Stiles then leans forward and pecks a kiss on Peter's mouth. "Which means I need to skedaddle. We'll be in touch." 

Stiles' lifts one hand up and waves, his fingers wiggling. _Goodbye_...

He suddenly goes still, hands dropping to his side. Peter's cock is nestled deep as the black dissipates from Stiles' eyes. Stiles blinks a few times before refocusing. It feels like he'd just zoned out, which is weird because they're in the middle of fucking, but whatever. Stranger things have happened. He ducks his head into the juncture of Peter's neck to hide his face, a little embarrassed by what he's just done. Stiles' arms are wrapped around Peter next. He's not clinging, however. Nope.

* * *

Despite the sex, Peter's mind is doing a fair imitation of racing. Oh, he's not about to go to the rest of the pack and voice his concerns because frankly Peter doesn't really _have_ any. Well... not as many as he'd had. The immediate risk to his own life seems to be non-existent because all signs point to this _thing_ in Stiles - or the other half of him - actually liking Peter. The playful smiles, the scent on the air, the obvious delight and debauchery Stiles had felt in riding Peter's cock, even the conversation. Nothing had stuck out as a red flag over Peter's life being in danger. 

He doesn't sense any immediate danger to Stiles either. Or to Derek or Malia. Frankly, Peter doesn't really care about the rest of them, though Isaac _might_ make the cut. Still, there is a niggling little doubt that maybe he's missed something. It _does_ make Peter want to kick Stiles out in order to go back to his laptop for a bit, but he doesn't dare do that. Just in case. 

But then Stiles - or the other Stiles - is leaning forward. Peter hisses at the way it tightens Stiles' muscles around his cock, but the sudden peck of a _kiss_ has him stilling and pulling back just a little. He frowns, his eyes narrowing as Stiles _waves_ at him, and then he's treated to the sight of the black slowly bleeding from Stiles' eyes. Peter freezes when Stiles does, and he waits, watching as Stiles slowly blinks. He draws in a slow breath, testing his scent, but aside from growing embarrassment, he can't sense anything else.

"Stiles?" Peter asks, and he finally allows the fingers in Stiles' hair to fall away, pressing instead to the back of his neck. This is a... tricky situation to be sure. "Are you all right? Back with me?"

* * *

Zoning out... It's not a big deal and it's definitely not a legit blackout. Stiles knows that his attention can ping pong around, it's totally not unheard of. Of course he's never zoned out during sex, but maybe the pace had been too slow or Stiles is tired. Who knows.

It's not a blackout because those had been the nogitsune fucking with him. His brain is fine. Those scans that mirrored his mom's? Fucking fox did that. This is him. Still him. He's still him. Not anyone else. He's on top of Peter, Peter's cock filling him perfectly. This is where he wants to be. This is what he wants. 

Sure Stiles isn't especially thrilled that he's kinda sorta clinging or cuddling up to Peter, but whatever. He can do what he wants considering Peter's dick is up his ass. Stiles gets a free pass as far as he's concerned. And Peter doesn't seem bothered or weirded out by what he's doing. Stiles breathes evenly - not too deeply because this isn't a panic attack and nothing is wrong.

Peter's voice, oddly enough, sounds kind of soothing and Stiles first nods against Peter's neck. 

"Yeah, zoned out is all," Stiles mumbles. He shifts and fucks himself back on Peter with a groan. "Guess I was goin' too slow." He decides to leave it at that, his attention focusing back onto this task. Stiles scratches at Peter's back as he rubs his cheek against Peter's jaw before going in for a kiss. 

This. This is better. 

* * *

It's dishonest to stay quiet, but Peter had never claimed to be an honest person. This development is... tricky, yes, but as far as he can see, Stiles _does_ seem fine. Stiles had been consenting before this, and Peter had made a point to stay still when the shade had appeared. Now that Stiles is back with him and moving on his own, Peter doesn't really see this as a consent issue. Stiles looks a little out of it, but that _is_ what the mind does when faced with a situation that it doesn't want to see. Peter does know a little about that, and while a part of him wants to dismiss Stiles so that he can look into what this might have been, he doesn't.

Stiles presses closer, fucking back on Peter's cock, and the feeling isn't quite as intent as the shade had been, but it's much more _Stiles_ , which makes it better. Peter's hand tightens on the back of Stiles' neck and when Stiles scratches at his back and nuzzles in closer, Peter feels some of the tension leaving his shoulders. This _is_ Stiles. Pliant, more relaxed, maybe a little distracted, but still Stiles. 

The kiss, when it comes, _is_ a slight surprise. They don't kiss often, but Peter doesn't turn away. Stiles looks like he might need it and so Peter allows it, returning the kiss with a lower sigh and gathering Stiles in closer. It's not a chaste kiss, but it's not rough either. Peter uses the moment to get Stiles' attention back on him, nibbling at Stiles' lower lip, teasing his tongue with his own, and swallowing every sound that Stiles sees fit to make. But Stiles isn't _quite_ as in the moment as he was before, and so Peter decides to test it.

He slides one hand down to Stiles' hip and stills his slow thrusts. Then, using his hand as guidance, Peter presses him back as he rolls his hips up, keeping the pace slower but deeper. He bites quickly at Stiles' lip. 

"Your legs are getting tired. I can tell. I can take over. I'd like to watch you come."

* * *

Stiles lets himself fall back into sex with Peter - or rather he doesn't allow himself the choice _not_ to. Because there's no reason not to. Sex with Peter is always good. Stiles likes being fucked and he still remembers the almost jubilant victory he'd felt at knowing that Peter was leaving his apartment to come find him. Instead of _Where's Waldo?_ it had been _Where's Stiles?_ Not that it had been difficult for Peter to locate him, but knowing that he'd got Peter hooked? Experiencing Peter's little 're-do' of the hickeys? It had been hot.

Scratch that, it's still hot. The motorbike ride had also been hot but kinda awkward due to the boner. But now he's on Peter's dick and Peter is pretty damn familiar to him. Stiles' body relishes in the heat of Peter's skin and when teeth graze against his bottom lip, Stiles puts up no fight as a tongue slides into his mouth.

It's Peter's hands that come to his hips and stop him from moving. But Peter's moving - taking over - and sliding in deeper which pushes a groan out of Stiles. Exhaling slowly, Stiles blinks and looks at Peter as he gives his explanation. Stiles' stubby nails do their best to dig into Peter's shoulders before he decides with a half-nod that it's fine that Peter's seeing fit to take control over this. Besides, Stiles' legs aren't feeling great. If he wants to do this for longer he's going to have to start doing a leg day at the gym. Or go to a gym period. 

"I want you to feel me come," is what Stiles counters before pressing closer again, resting the side of his face against Peter's. "I want you to fill me," he whispers in a ragged voice. After this he's going to drink like, a gallon of water. Rough blowjob, exertion and moaning haven't been especially kind on his throat, but it's not a big deal. Stiles likes carrying proof of his dalliances with Peter anyway. 

* * *

If Stiles had wanted to stop, Peter thinks he would have honored that. This might be skirting the line of what constitutes _okay_ and what doesn't, but Peter is no rapist. His mind is occupied, and Stiles doesn't have all the information, but as he feels Stiles groan against him and lean in, nails scratching at Peter's shoulders, Peter has to wonder what he'd even say if he _were_ to admit to what had happened. It doesn't make sense. Upsetting Stiles for little to no reason is pointless when he doesn't have any real information to back it up. So for now, simple is better.

For now, Peter listens to Stiles' pleasure, scents his arousal, and he feels the moment that Stiles relaxes and gives up, letting Peter take over. Peter growls low in his throat, appreciative, and he grinds up slowly in reward, feeling Stiles' muscles tighten and clench around him in a way that he knows will make him come if he keeps letting it happen with no response. When he speaks, Stiles' voice is rough and raw and thin with need, and Peter can at least do something about _this_.

"Your wish is my command," he says against Stiles' jaw, lips barely brushing the soft hairs just before Stiles' ear. Peter's teeth scrape there once, half-threat, half-reassurance, and his hold tightens. He takes handfuls of Stiles' ass and leans back on his bed, changing the angle just a bit more. Then Peter lifts Stiles up slowly and slams him back down, meeting the harder thrusts with a snap of his own hips. He growls out a low, "hold onto me," in warning, and then takes over, keeping up that slow-then-quick pace, each thrust hard enough for the slap of skin to almost be jarring between them. 

Peter's breath quickens as he fucks up into Stiles, feeling each tight clench, each desperate squirm, and he loves it. He mutters filth into Stiles' ear - how tight he is, how _good_ he is, how badly he wants this - and it's easy to fall back into those patterns when the words are so true.

* * *

When Peter responds, Stiles thinks of the genie from Aladdin - _your wish is my command._ But Peter, as awesome as he may be at fucking, is no big blue dancing and singing magical genie (thank God because that'd be absolutely ridiculous). But thoughts of Disney movies quickly vanish because Stiles is once again reminded of who he's with and what they're doing. Because Peter wastes no time in grabbing at his ass securely and he's promptly lifted and slammed back down on Peter's cock.

He moans, this new angle fucking _perfect_ and Peter more than able to take control and blow his mind. Stiles barely registers the half-threat, half-suggestion of holding onto Peter, but he does it, his hands trembling from the sudden spike in intensity and the impending orgasm that's building steadily within.

Peter's mouth is close to his ear, Peter's tongue whispering dirty, dirty things that Stiles absolutely loves to hear (and will never grow tired of). He gives in to the moment, letting heat and need claim him as Peter easily lifts him up and then slams him back down. The pace is slower, but the thrusts are hard, and Peter's cock is deliciously filling him and it's almost too much, like he might break, but somehow Stiles knows that Peter wouldn't ever break him. He doesn't need to be afraid.

Bruises and scratches heal - Stiles likes them. Peter never pushes too far, too fast. Stiles isn't in any danger of breaking, so he can let himself fully enjoy this hard-fought win. Because he'd gotten Peter to want him, to come out and search for him, to give him better and bolder hickeys. He'd given Peter a back alley blowjob and Peter had taken him home. Stiles feels victorious and pleased. This is a game he likes and it's going to go his way. 

"Make me come, Peter, make me fucking come," Stiles demands in a forceful, but wrecked voice. 

* * *

_This_ is what Peter knows how to do easily after so many months of doing just that. Stiles is a familiar, clenching heat around him even if he's pushed himself to his limit. Much as Peter had enjoyed Stiles' _other_ self seemingly having no plans on slowing down or showing fatigue, there's something satisfying about feeling Stiles relax against him, in feeling the tremble of exertion in his body as he finally makes himself settle back down and let Peter take over. Peter has no plans to leave Stiles wanting now, especially since it's _Stiles_ again, and they've both been on edge for long enough now. Peter doesn't intend to keep either of them waiting now.

So he fucks up into Stiles with purpose, each thrust sharp and solid. Peter already knows the angle that turns Stiles' legs to jelly, but he waits for Stiles to tell him he's found it. The visceral shudder and moan that he drags from Stiles' body is like a giant neon sign, and Peter redoubles his effort, feeling Stiles lean against him, hearing his desperation climb and scenting how close he is. It's a feast for his senses as he lifts Stiles up and fucks back up into him, but when Stiles orders him to make him come? Well, Peter's feeling more than generous. 

"I intend to. I want to feel you fall apart against me. I want to _see_ it," Peter growls his promise. He shifts Stiles close enough for his cock to drag against Peter's abs with each thrust. Oh, he _could_ stroke Stiles' cock, but Peter's always preferred the intensity of fucking Stiles to mindlessness. Stiles gets off harder like this, and as his thrusts quicken, he knows that Stiles will be feeling this for _days_. 

But when he catches sight of the hickeys on Stiles' throat, something else rises in his chest. He's never dared before, because Stiles has never let him leave marks on his throat before, but now seems like the perfect time. So Peter leans in and _bites_ , hard enough that were Stiles' throat not already bruised, that would have been enough. And, to make a point, Peter growls as he fucks up harder into Stiles' body, intent on making him come. 

* * *

Peter will make him come. Stiles has no doubt in his mind. Stiles has never left disappointed or dissatisfied with their fooling around. He knows Peter takes great pride in providing him mind blowing orgasms that leave him dazed and shaking and tonight isn't going to be any different. Tonight has been fun and more involved than most of their usual shagadoos and Stiles wonders if things are going to be different for them going forward (but he kind of thinks that things are _already_ changing). 

Different is okay, though. Different is fine - it's _fun_ too. And there may be a small part of Stiles' brain that worries about Peter getting bored with him if their sex somehow isn't spicy-spicy. It's difficult to imagine that happening, but you never know, right? Nothing is really guaranteed in life in Beacon Hills - not even dying. 

Knowing that Peter is going to fuck him _until_ he comes has Stiles absolutely pumped. How could he not be? His body feels like every nerve ending is firing and he may have zoned out before, but there's not a snowball's chance in hell that he could do that now. Peter pulls him closer and Stiles feels his cock brush against Peter's heated skin - a perfect tease that accompanies the harder thrusts that leave him gasping and already a little sore. 

Without any warning - not like any is needed - Peter's mouth is suddenly on his already-abused throat and Peter bites. _Hard._ Pain bursts forward but Peter doesn't stop moving - doesn't stop fucking into him. Stiles is practically chanting Peter's name between a litany of _fucks_ as he feels himself begin to tense. Peter's cockhead grazes against his prostate just right and the intensity of the thrusts and skin slapping against skin has Stiles being slammed over the edge as he comes hard, crying out as his head falls back and his body twitches.

* * *

God, how had he gone without this for two weeks? Peter feels each perfect thrust and the way Stiles' body clenches down around him in response and the desire to just flip them over and fuck Stiles properly does rear its head, but he doesn't give in. He doesn't want to, not when this is so perfect, and when he can feel Stiles' body beginning to give in. It'll always be a heady experience to have him like this, to feel Stiles' desperation and know that the secret is theirs to share. To know that no one else would approve, but that Stiles is still taking the risk because _this_ is what he wants. 

There's a part of Peter that expects Stiles to shove back against the bite when it happens. Stiles hasn't exactly had a great track record with Peter and biting over the years, after all. But when Peter bites him, Stiles' body goes beautifully rigid and he gasps. Then the chanting starts, desperate gasps of his name and curses that sound like music to Peter's ears. Peter growls lower, feeling it down to his core as Stiles begs so sweetly with his name alone, and when Peter feels the first twitches around his cock and hears Stiles' voice suddenly raise and cry out, Peter grabs him tighter and grinds up pointedly.

He _feels_ it when Stiles comes, in wracking shudders. Peter feels wet heat spill onto his stomach and he groans roughly in the back of his throat as Stiles' hole clenches down around him. And it's like the dam has finally burst. Peter feels the heat rush through him, feels pleasure carve its way through his body, and as he tightens his hold on Stiles and bites just a bit harder, Peter's own orgasm slams into him with the sort of strength that leaves him breathless. He grinds up hard, burying himself in Stiles' body as he fills him, his nails digging into Stiles' skin and his eyes glinting blue. _Fuck_ , he'd missed this.

* * *

It's a rush of intensity that Stiles thinks he'll never grow tired of. He thinks he's always sure that each last orgasm he's had with Peter is the best, and yet they keep getting better and better. Peter had called him reckless earlier, but now Stiles wonders if the word _addicted_ isn't a better fit, because he's definitely there too. Stiles has had orgasms with other partners and through his own rather capable hand. Orgasms always feel good - it's relief and pleasure and who wouldn't want that? But somehow with _Peter_ , it's about more than just getting off. The whole experience is _invigorating_ and enticing. 

And they make Stiles want more and already crave another hit. Peter's teeth hurt already-abused skin, but it's worth it to hear the pleasured groan as Peter fucking goes off inside of him. Stiles' own orgasm is still crashing over him, aftershocks of bliss causing Stiles to shudder as Peter fills him with heat. The bite of nails against his skin has Stiles shaking. 

He all but goes limp against Peter, his head tucking against Peter's shoulder as he breathes and comes down. 

"Don't... make me wait two weeks again," is what Stiles threatens, his voice raspy, body spent. Somehow it seems important to tell Peter this, despite the fact that he's dirty with his own come and Peter's cock is still stuffed inside.

* * *

It's a roar of sensation that pounds in Peter's ears, the pleasure, the heat, the sound of Stiles' voice breaking, and the thundering of their heartbeats as everything mixes into one vibrant, chaotic mess of sensation. He clutches Stiles closer than he ought to and Peter can tell without needing to check that Stiles will carry his bruises for days, if not weeks. Peter feels dizzy with the knowledge, with the sheer, sharp possessiveness of _knowing_ that Stiles will have bruises in the shape of his fingerprints, and hickeys all but tattooed onto his skin with the force that Peter had used. It eclipses everything else that he perhaps should be worrying about, but Stiles doesn't seem like he's about to argue either.

And he doesn't. Instead, when the pulsing aftershocks ease down for them both, Stiles slumps forward against Peter's shoulder, a warm, damp weight. He smells like sweat and sex and need, and something darker, something that entices Peter's instincts in ways it shouldn't. He exhales a rough sound, half-groan, half-sigh, and as Stiles tucks himself in against Peter's shoulder, Peter turns his head and buries his face in against Stiles' throat, breathing in the scent of satisfaction and satiation all but rolling off of Stiles.

It will be some time before he finally builds up the drive to move, until he eases Stiles off of his dick and tells him to go and clean himself up. For now Peter lets the sensation wash over him, listens, and feels Stiles' body tremble against him. And, while a part of him feels as though he should argue Stiles' threat on principle - never letting it go for two weeks again - he doesn't _want_ to. He'd hated the two week break too.

"Two weeks was too long," Peter murmurs against Stiles' throat, voice low and smooth. "I won't wait that long again. You have my word." And he means it. 

**Author's Note:**

> Hey there! Do you like the story so far? If so, please consider supporting/encouraging us by leaving a comment here or reblogging our fic on tumblr [here](https://merrythought.tumblr.com/post/185784524763/pinned-down-and-perfect-a-work-in-progress)! :)


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